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GIFT  or 
John  H.   Mee 


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Av 


THE  COMEDY  OF  HUMAN  LIFE 


By   H.  DE   BALZAC 


PHILOSOPHICAL    STUDIES 


JUANA 

ADIEU 

A  DRAMA  ON  THE 

SEASHORE 
THE  RED  INN 


THE  RECRUIT 
EL  VERDUGO 
THE  ELIXIR  OF  LIFE 
THE  HATED  SON 
MAITRE  CORNELIUS 


BALZAC'S     NOVELS. 

Translated  by  Miss  K.  P.  Worivieley. 

Already  Published: 
PEEE     GORIOT. 
DUCHESSE     DE     LANGEAIS. 
RISE  AND  FALL  OF  CESAR  BIROTTEAIL 
EUGENIE     GRANDET. 
COUSIN     PONS. 
THE     COUNTRY     DOCTOR. 
THE     TWO     BROTHERS. 

THE  ALKAHEST  (La  Recherche  del'Absolu). 
MODESTE     MIGNON. 

THE   MAGIC    SKIN  (La  Peau  de  Chagrin). 
COUSIN     BETTE. 
LOUIS     LAMBERT. 
BUREAUCRACY  (Les  Employed). 
SERAPHITA. 

SONS    OF    THE    SOIL   (Les  Paysans). 
FAME    AND    SORROW    (Chat-qui-pelote). 
THE    LILY    OF    THE    VALLEY 
URSULA. 

AN   HISTORICAL    MYSTERY. 
ALBERT    SAVARUS. 
BALZAC  :    A   MEMOIR. 
PIERRETTE. 
THE    CHOUANS. 
LOST    ILLUSIONS. 

A  GREAT   MAN   OF   THE    PROVINCES  IN 

PARIS. 
THE  BROTHERHOOD  OF    CONSOLATION. 
THE    VILLAGE    RECTOR. 
MEMOIRS    OF    TWO     YOUNG    MARRIED 

WOMEN. 
CATHERINE    DE'    MEDICI. 
LUCIEN   DE    RUBEMPRE. 

FERRAGUS,  CHIEF  OF  THE  DEVORANTS. 
A    START    IN    LIFE. 
THE    MARRIAGE    CONTRACT. 
BEATRIX. 

A  DAUGHTER    OF    EVE. 
THE    GALLERY    OF   ANTIQUITIES. 
GOBSECK. 

THE    LESSER   BOURGEOISIE. 
JUANA   (Les  Maranas). 
THE    DEPUTY    OF   ARCIS. 


ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC 


TKANSL<»T«0     BY 


H 


KATHARINE    PRESCOTT    WORMELEY 


JUANA 


ROBERTS     BROTHERS 


3     SOMERSET     STREET 


BOSTON 
1896 


GIFT  OF 


A    /hat 


Copyright,  1896, 
By  Roberts  Brothers. 


All  rights  reserved. 


JSmbrrsftg  $rrsa: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS. 


JUANA. 

PAGE 

I.     Exposition 1 

II.     Action      ......     . 21 

III.     The  History  of  Madame  Diard  ....  44 

ADIEU. 

I.     An  Old  Monastery 85 

II.     The  Passage  of  the  Be're'sina     ....  102 

III.     The  Cure 125 

A  DRAMA  ON  THE   SEASHORE 145 

THE   RED   INN 175 

THE   RECRUIT 225 

EL  VERDUGO 249 

THE   ELIXIR  OF   LIFE 271 

THE  HATED   SON: 

PART  FIRST.  —  How  the  Mother  Lived. 

I.     A  Bedroom  of  the  Sixteenth  Century  .  303 

II.     The  Bonesetter 327 

III.     The  Mother's  Love 339 


796251 


vi  Contents. 

PAGE 

PART   SECOND.  —  How  the  Son  Died. 

IV.     An  Heir 367 

V.     Gabrielle 382 

VI.     Love 398 

VII.     The  Crushed  Pearl 415 

MAITRE   CORNELIUS. 

I.     A   Church    Scene  of   the   Fifteenth  Cen- 
tury     435 

II.     The  Torconnier 454 

III.  The  Robbery  of  the  Jewels  of  the. Duke 

of  Bavaria 476 

IV.  The  Hidden  Treasure 499 


>       ■»  - 


J  U  A  N  A. 


TO  MADAME  LA  COMTESSE   MERLIN". 


I. 


EXPOSITION. 


Notwithstanding  the  discipline  which  Marechal 
Suchet  had  introduced  into  his  army  corps,  he  was 
unable  to  prevent  a  short  period  of  trouble  and  dis- 
order at  the  taking  of  Tarragona.  According  to  cer- 
tain fair-minded  military  men,  this  intoxication  of 
victory  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  pillage,  though 
the  marechal  promptly  repressed  it.  Order  being  re- 
established, each  regiment  quartered  in  its  respective 
lines,  and  the  commandant  of  the  city  appointed,  mili- 
tary administration  began.  The  place  assumed  a 
mongrel  aspect.  Though  all  things  were  organized  on 
a  French  system,  the  Spaniards  were  left  free  to  follow 
in  petto  their  national  tastes. 

This  period  of  pillage  (it  is  difficult  to  determine 
how  long  it  lasted)  had,  like  all  other  sublunary  ef- 
fects, a  cause,  not  so  difficult  to  discover.  In  the 
marechal's  army  was  a  regiment,  composed  almost 
entirely   of    Italians    and    commanded   by   a   certain 

l 


2  •  J  mna. 

Colonel  Eugene,  a  man  of  remarkable  bravery,  a 
second  Murat,  who,  having  entered  the  military  ser- 
vice too  late,  obtained  neither  a  Grand  Duchy  of  Berg 
nor  a  Kingdom  of  Naples,  nor  balls  at  the  Pizzo.  But 
if  he  won  no  crown  he  had  ample  opportunity  to  ob- 
tain wounds,  and  it  was  not  surprising  that  he  met 
with  several.  His  regiment  was  composed  of  the  scat- 
tered fragments  of  the  Italian  legion.  This  legion 
was  to  Italy  what  the  colonial  battalions  are  to  France. 
Its  permanent  cantonments,  established  on  the  island 
of  Elba,  served  as  an  honorable  place  of  exile  for  the 
troublesome  sons  of  good  families  and  for  those  great 
men  who  have  just  missed  greatness,  whom  society 
brands  with  a  hot  iron  and  designates  by  the  term 
mauvais  sujets  ;.  men  who  are  for  the  most  part  mis- 
understood ;  whose  existence  may  become  either  noble 
through  the  smile  of  a  woman  lifting  them  out  of  their 
rut,  or  shocking  at  the  close  of  an  orgy  under  the  in- 
fluence of  some  damnable  reflection  dropped  by  a 
drunken  comrade. 

Napoleon  had  incorporated  these  vigorous  beings  in 
the  sixth  of  the  line,  hoping  to  metamorphose  them 
finally  into  generals,  —  barring  those  whom  the  bullets 
might  take  off.  But  the  emperor's  calculation  was 
scarcely  fulfilled,  except  in  the  matter  of  the  bullets. 
This  regiment,  often  decimated  but  always  the  same 
in  character,  acquired  a  great  reputation  for  valor  in 
the  field  and  for  wickedness  in  private  life.  At  the 
siege  of  Tarragona  it  lost  its  celebrated  hero,  Bianchi, 
the  man  who,  during  the  campaign,  had  wagered  that 
he  would  eat  the  heart  of  a  Spanish  sentinel,  and  did 
eat  it.     Though  Bianchi  was  the  prince   of  the  devils 


Juana.  3 

incarnate  to  whom  the  regiment  owed  its  dual  repu- 
tation, he  had,  nevertheless,  that  sort  of  chivalrous 
honor  which  excuses,  in  the  army,  the  worst  excesses. 
In  a  word,  he  would  have  been,  at  an  earlier  period, 
an  admirable  pirate.  A  few  days  before  his  death  he 
distinguished  himself  by  a  daring  action  which  the 
marechal  wished  to  reward.  Bianchi  refused  rank,  pen- 
sion, and  additional  decoration,  asking,  for  sole  recom- 
pense, the  favor  of  being  the  first  to  mount  the  breach 
at  the  assault  on  Tarragona.  The  marechal  granted 
the  request  and  then  forgot  his  promise  ;  but  Bianchi 
forced  him  to  remember  Bianchi.  The  enraged  hero 
was  the  first  to  plant  our  flag  on  the  wall,  where  he 
was  shot  by  a  monk. 

This  historical  digression  was  necessary,  in  order  to 
explain  how  it  was  that  the  6th  of  the  line  was  the 
regiment  to  enter  Tarragona,  and  why  the  disorder  and 
confusion,  natural  enough  in  a  city  taken  by  storm, 
degenerated  for  a  time  into  a  slight  pillage. 

This  regiment  possessed  two  officers,  not  at  all  re- 
markable among  these  men  of  iron,  who  played,  never- 
theless, in  the  history  we  shall  now  relate,  a  somewhat 
important  part. 

The  first,  a  captain  in  the  quartermaster's  depart- 
ment, an  officer  half  civil,  half  military,  was  consid- 
ered, in  soldier  phrase,  to  be  fighting  his  own  battle. 
He  pretended  bravery,  boasted  loudly  of  belonging  to 
the  6th  of  the  line,  twirled  his  moustache  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  was  ready  to  demolish  everything ;  but 
his  brother  officers  did  not  esteem  him.  The  fortune 
he  possessed  made  him  cautious.  He  was  nicknamed, 
for   two   reasons,    "captain   of  crows."     In    the  first 


4  Juana. 

place,  be  could  smell  powder  a  league  off,  and  took 
wing  at  the  sound  of  a  musket ;  secondly,  the  nick- 
name was  based  on  an  innocent  military  pun,  which 
his  position  in  the  regiment  warranted.  Captain 
Montefiore,  of  the  illustrious  Montefiore  Tamily  of 
Milan  (though  the  laws  of  the  Kingdom  of  Italy  for- 
bade him  to  bear  his  title  in  the  French  service)  was 
one  of  the  handsomest  men  in  the  army.  This  beauty 
may  have  been  among  the  secret  causes  of  his  prudence 
on  fighting  days.  A  wound  which  might  have  injured 
his  nose,  cleft  his  forehead,  or  scarred  his  cheek,  would 
have  destroyed  one  of  the  most  beautiful  Italian  faces 
which  a  woman  ever  dreamed  of  in  all  its  delicate  pro- 
portions. This  face,  not  unlike  the  type  which  Girodet 
has  given  to  the  dying  young  Turk,  in  the  "  Revolt  at 
Cairo,"  was  instinct  with  that  melancholy  by  which  all 
women  are  more  or  less  duped. 

The  Marquis  de  Montefiore  possessed  an  entailed 
property,  but  his  income  was  mortgaged  for  a  number 
of  years  to  pay  off  the  costs  of  certain  Italian  escapades 
which  are  inconceivable  in  Paris.  lie  had  ruined  him- 
self in  supporting  a  theatre  at  Milan  in  order  to  force 
upon  the  public  a  very  inferior  prima  donna,  whom  he 
was  said  to  love  madly.  A  fine  future  was  therefore 
before  him,  and  he  did  not  care  to  risk  it  for  the  paltry 
distinction  of  a  bit  of  red  ribbon.  He  was  not  a  brave 
man,  but  he  was  certainly  a  philosopher ;  and  he  had 
precedents,  if  we  may  use  so  parliamentary  an  expres- 
sion. Did  not  Philip  the  Second  register  a  vow  after 
the  battle  of  Saint  Quentin  that  never  again  would  he 
put  himself  under  fire?  And  did  not  the  Duke  of  Alba 
encourage  him  in  thinking  that  the  worst  trade  in  the 


J  nana.  5 

world  was  the  involuntary  exchange  of  a  crown  for  a 
bullet?  Hence,  Montefiore  was  Philippiste  in  his  capa- 
city of  rich  marquis  and  handsome  man ;  and  in  other 
respects  also  he  was  quite  as  profound  a  politician  as 
Philip  the  Second  himself.  He  consoled  himself  for  his 
nickname,  and  for  the  disesteem  of  the  regiment  by  think- 
ing that  his  comrades  were  blackguards,  whose  opinion 
would  never  be  of  any  consequence  to  him  if  by  chance 
they  survived  the  present  war,  which  seemed  to  be  one 
of  extermination.  He  relied  on  his  face  to  win  him 
promotion  ;  he  saw  himself  made  colonel  by  feminine 
influence  and  a  cleverly  managed  transition  from  captain 
of  equipment  to  orderly  officer,  and  from  orderly  officer 
to  aide-de-camp  on  the  staff  of  some  easy-going  mar- 
shal. By  that  time,  he  reflected,  he  should  come  into 
his  property  of  a  hundred  thousand  scudi  a  year,  some 
journal  would  speak  of  him  as  "the  brave  Montefiore," 
he  would  marry  a  girl  of  rank,  and  no  one  would  dare 
to  dispute  his  courage  or  verify  his  wounds. 

Captain  Montefiore  had  one  friend  in  the  person  of 
the  quartermaster,  —  a  Provengal,  born  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Nice,  whose  name  was  Diard.  A  friend, 
whether  at  the  galleys  or  in  the  garret  of  an  artist, 
consoles  for  many  troubles.  Now  Montefiore  and 
Diard  were  two  philosophers,  who  consoled  each  other 
for  their  present  lives  by  the  stud}T  of  vice,  as  artists 
soothe  the  immediate  disappointment  of  their  hopes  by 
the  expectation  of  future  fame.  Both  regarded  the  war 
in  its  results,  not  its  action ;  they  simply  considered 
those  who  died  for  glory  fools.  Chance  had  made 
soldiers  of  them ;  whereas  their  natural  proclivities 
would  have  seated  them  at  the  green  table  of  a  con- 


6  Juana. 

gress.  Nature  had  poured  Montefiore  into  the  mould 
of  a  Rizzio,  and  Diard  into  that  of  a  diplomatist.  Both 
were  endowed  with  that  nervous,  feverish,  half-feminine 
organization,  which  is  equally  strong  for  good  or  evil, 
and  from  which  may  emanate,  according  to  the  impulse 
of  these  singular  temperaments,  a  crime  or  a  generous 
action,  a  noble  deed  or  a  base  one.  The  fate  of  such 
natures  depends  at  any  moment  on  the  pressure,  more 
or  less  powerful,  produced  on  their  nervous  systems  by 
violent  and  transitory  passions. 

Diard  was  considered  a  good  accountant,  but  no 
soldier  would  have  trusted  him  with  his  purse  or  his 
will,  possibly  because  of  the  antipathy  felt  by  all  real 
soldiers  against  the  bureaucrats.  The  quartermaster  was 
not  without  courage  and  a  certain  juvenile  generosity, 
sentiments  which  many  men  give  up  as  they  grow  older, 
by  dint  of  reasoning  or  calculating.  Variable  as  the 
beauty  of  a  fair  woman,  Diard  was  a  great  boaster  and 
a  great  talker,  talking  of  everything.  He  said  he  was 
artistic,  and  he  made  prizes  (like  two  celebrated  gen- 
erals) of  works  of  art,  solely,  he  declared,  to  preserve 
them  for  posterity.  His  military  comrades  would  have 
been  puzzled  indeed  to  form  a  correct  judgment  of  him. 
Many  of  them,  accustomed  to  draw  upon  his  funds 
when  occasion  obliged  them,  thought  him  rich;  but  in 
truth,  he  was  a  gambler,  and  gamblers  may  be  said  to 
have  nothing  of  their  own.  Montefiore  was  also  a 
gambler,  and  all  the  officers  of  the  regiment  played 
with  the  pair ;  for,  to  the  shame  of  men  be  it  said,  it  is 
not  a  rare  thing  to  see  persons  gambling  together 
around  a  green  table  who,  when  the  game  is  finished, 
will  not  bow  to  their  companions,  feeling  no  respect  for 


Juana.  7 

them.  Montefiore  was  the  man  with  whom  Bianchi 
made  his  bet  about  the  heart  of  the  Spanish  sentinel. 

Montefiore  and  Diard  were  among  the  last  to  mount 
the  breach  at  Tarragona,  but  the  first  in  the  heart  of 
the  town  as  soon  as  it  was  taken.  Accidents  of  this 
sort  happen  in  all  attacks,  but  with  this  pair  of  friends 
they  were  customary.  Supporting  each  other,  they 
made  their  wa}7  bravely  through  a  labyrinth  of  narrow 
and  gloomy  little  streets  in  quest  of  their  personal 
objects ;  one  seeking  for  painted  madonnas,  the  other 
for  madonnas  of  flesh  and  blood. 

In  what  part  of  Tarragona  it  happened  I  cannot  say, 
but  Diard  presently  recognized  by  its  architecture  the 
portal  of  a  convent,  the  gate  of  which  was  already  bat- 
tered in.  Springing  into  the  cloister  to  put  a  stop  to  the 
fury  of  the  soldiers,  he  arrived  just  in  time  to  prevent 
two  Parisians  from  shooting  a  Virgin  by  Albano.  In 
spite  of  the  moustache  with  which  in  their  military 
fanaticism  they  had  decorated  her  face,  he  bought  the 
picture.  Montefiore,  left  alone  during  this  episode, 
noticed,  nearly  opposite  to  the  convent,  the  house  and 
shop  of  a  draper,  from  which  a  shot  was  fired  at  him 
at  the  moment  when  his  eyes  caught  a  flaming  glance 
from  those  of  an  inquisitive  young  girl,  whose  head 
was  advanced  under  shelter  of  a  blind.  Tarragona 
taken  by  assault,  Tarragona  furious,  firing  from  every 
window,  Tarragona  violated,  with  dishevelled  hair,  and 
half-naked,  was  indeed  an  object  of  curiosity,  — the 
curiosity  of  a  daring  Spanish  woman.  It  was  a  magni- 
fied bull-fight. 

Montefiore  forgot  the  pillage,  and  heard,  for  the 
moment,  neither  the  cries,  nor  the  musketry,  nor  the 


8  Juana. 

growling  of  the  artillery.  The  profile  of  that  Spanish 
girl  was  the  most  divinely  delicious  thing  which  he,  an 
Italian  libertine,  weary  of  Italian  beauty,  and  dream- 
ing of  an  impossible  woman  because  he  was  tired  of 
all  women,  had  ever  seen.  He  could  still  quiver,  he, 
who  had  wasted  his  fortune  on  a  thousand  follies,  the 
thousand  passions  of  a  young  and  blase  man  —  the 
most  abominable  monster  that  society  generates.  An 
idea  came  into  his  head,  suggested  perhaps  by  the  shot 
of  the  draper-patriot,  namely,  —  to  set  fire  to  the  house. 
But  he  was  now  alone,  and  without  any  means  of  ac- 
tion ;  the  fighting  was  centred  in  the  market-place, 
where  a  few  obstinate  beings  were  still  defending  the 
town.  A  better  idea  then  occurred  to  him.  Diard 
came  out  of  the  convent,  but  Montefiore  said  not  a 
word  of  his  discovery  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  accompanied 
him  on  a  series  of  rambles  about  the  streets.  But  the 
next  day,  the  Italian  had  obtained  his  military  billet  in 
the  house  of  the  draper,  —  an  appropriate  lodging  for 
an  equipment  captain  ! 

The  house  of  the  worthy  Spaniard  consisted,  on  the 
ground-floor,  of  a  vast  and  gloomy  shop,  externally 
fortified  with  stout  iron  window  bars,  such  as  we  see 
in  the  old  storehouses  of  the  rue  des  Lombards.  This 
shop  communicated  with  a  parlor  lighted  from  an  in- 
terior courtyard,  a  large  room  breathing  the  very  spirit 
of  the  middle-ages,  with  smoky  old  pictures,  old  tapes- 
tries, antique  brazero,  a  plumed  hat  hanging  to  a  nail, 
the  musket  of  the  guerrillas,  and  the  cloak  of  Bartholo. 
The  kitchen  adjoined  this  unique  living-room,  where  the 
inmates  took  their  meals  and  warmed  themselves  over 
the  dull  glow  of  the  brazier,  smoking  cigars  and  dis- 


Juana.  9 

coursing  bitterly  to  animate  all  hearts  with  hatred 
against  the  French.  Silver  pitchers  and  precious 
dishes  of  plate  and  porcelain  adorned  a  buttery  shelf 
of  the  olden  fashion.  But  the  light,  sparsely  admit- 
ted, allowed  these  dazzling  objects  to  show  but 
slightly ;  all  things,  as  in  pictures  of  the  Dutch  school, 
looked  brown,  even  the  faces.  Between  the  shop  and 
this  living-room,  so  fine  in  color  and  in  its  tone  of 
patriarchal  life,  was  a  dark  staircase  leading  to  a  ware- 
room  where  the  light,  carefully  distributed,  permitted 
the  examination  of  goods.  Above  this  were  the  apart- 
ments of  the  merchant  and  his  wife.  Rooms  for  an 
apprentice  and  a  servant-woman  were  in  a  garret 
under  the  roof,  which  projected  over  the  street  and  was 
supported  by  buttresses,  giving  a  somewhat  fantastic 
appearance  to  the  exterior  of  the  building.  These 
chambers  were  now  taken  by  the  merchant  and  his 
wife  who  gave  up  their  own  rooms  to  the  officer  who 
was  billeted  upon  them,  —  probably  because  they  wished 
to  avoid  all  quarrelling. 

Montefiore  gave  himself  out  as  a  former  Spanish 
subject,  persecuted  by  Napoleon,  whom  he  was  serving 
against  his  will ;  and  these  semi-lies  had  the  success 
he  expected.  He  was  invited  to  share  the  meals  of 
the  family,  and  was  treated  with  the  respect  due  to  his 
name,  his  birth,  and  his  title.  He  had  his  reasons  for 
capturing  the  good-will  of  the  merchant  and  his  wife ; 
he  scented  his  madonna  as  the  ogre  scented  the  youth- 
ful flesh  of  Tom  Thumb  and  his  brothers.  But  in 
spite  of  the  confidence  he  managed  to  inspire  in  the 
worthy  pair  the  latter  maintained  the  most  profound 
silence  as  to  the  said  madonna ;  and  not  only  did  the 


10  Juana. 

captain  see  no  trace  of  the  young  girl  during  the  first 
day  he  spent  under  the  roof  of  the  honest  Spaniard, 
but  he  heard  no  sound  and  came  upon  no  indication 
which  revealed  her  presence  in  that  ancient  building. 
Supposing  that  she  was  the  only  daughter  of  the  old 
couple,  Montefiore  concluded  they  had  consigned  her 
to  the  garret,  where,  for  the  time  being,  they  made 
their  home. 

But  no  revelation  came  to  betray  the  hiding-place  of 
that  precious  treasure.  The  marquis  glued  his  face  to 
the  lozenge-shaped  leaded  panes  which  looked  upon 
the  black-walled  inclosure  of  the  inner  courtyard ;  but 
in  vain ;  he  saw  no  gleam  of  light  except  from  the 
windows  of  the  old  couple,  whom  he  could  see  and 
hear  as  they  went  and  came  and  talked  and  coughed. 
Of  the  young  girl,  not  a  shadow  ! 

Montefiore  was  far  too  wary  to  risk  the  future  of  his 
passion  by  exploring  the  house  nocturnally,  or  by 
tapping  softly  on  the  doors.  Discovery  by  that  hot 
patriot,  the  mercer,  suspicious  as  a  Spaniard  must  be, 
meant  ruin  infallibly.  The  captain  therefore  resolved 
to  wait  patiently,  resting  his  faith  on  time  and  the 
imperfection  of  men,  which  always  results  —  even  with 
scoundrels,  and  how  much  more  with  honest  men ! 
—  in  the  neglect  of  precautions. 

The  next  day  he  discovered  a  hammock  in  the 
kitchen,  showing  plainly  where  the  servant-woman 
slept.  As  for  the  apprentice,  his  bed  was  evidently 
made  on  the  shop  counter.  During  supper  on  the 
second  day  Montefiore  succeeded,  by  cursing  Napo- 
leon, in  smoothing  the  anxious  forehead  of  the  mer- 
chant, a  grave,  black-visaged  Spaniard,  much  like  the 


Juana.  11 

faces  formerly  carved  on  the  handles  of  Moorish  lutes ; 
even  the  wife  let  a  gay  smile  of  hatred  appear  in  the 
folds  of  her  elderly  face.  The  lamp  and  the  reflections 
of  the  brazier  illumined  fantastically  the  shadows  of 
the  noble  room.  The  mistress  of  the  house  offered  a 
cigamto  to  their  semi-compatriot.  At  this  moment  the 
rustle  of  a  dress  and  the  fall  of  a  chair  behind  the 
tapestry  were  plainly  heard. 

"  Ah  !"  cried  the  wife,  turning  pale,  "may  the 
saints  assist  us  !     God  grant  no  harm  has  happened  !  " 

"You  have  some  one  in  the  next  room,  have  you 
not?  "  said  Montefiore,  giving  no  sign  of  emotion. 

The  draper  dropped  a  word  of  imprecation  against 
girls.  Evidently  alarmed,  the  wife  opened  a  secret 
door,  and  led  in,  half  fainting,  the  Italian's  madonna, 
to  whom  he  was  careful  to  pay  no  attention ;  only,  to 
avoid  a  too-studied  indifference,  he  glanced  at  the  girl 
before  he  turned  to  his  host  and  said  in  his  own 
language : — 

"  Is  that  }^our  daughter,  signore?  " 

Perez  de  Lagounia  (such  was  the  merchant's  name) 
had  large  commercial  relations  with  Genoa,  Florence, 
and  Livorno ;  he  knew  Italian,  and  replied  in  the  same 
lansruaoe  :  — 

"No;  if  she  were  my  daughter  I  should  take  less 
precautions.  The  child  is  confided  to  our  care,  and  I 
would  rather  die  than  see  any  evil  happen  to  her.  But 
how  is  it  possible  to  put  sense  into  a  girl  of  eighteen?" 

"  She  is  very  handsome,"  said  Montefiore,  coldly, 
not  looking  at  her  face  again. 

"  Her  mother's  beauty  is  celebrated,"  replied  the 
merchant,  briefly. 


12  Juana. 

They  continued  to  smoke,  watching  each  other. 
Though  Montefiore  compelled  himself  not  to  give  the 
slightest  look  which  might  contradict  his  apparent 
coldness,  he  could  not  refrain,  at  a  moment  when  Perez 
turned  his  head  to  expectorate,  from  casting  a  rapid 
glance  at  the  young  girl,  whose  sparkling  eyes  met  his. 
Then,  with  that  science  of  vision  which  gives  to  a  liber- 
tine, as  it  does  to  a  sculptor,  the  fatal  power  of  disrobing, 
if  we  may  so  express  it,  a  woman,  and  divining  her 
shape  by  inductions  both  rapid  and  sagacious,  he  be- 
held one  of  those  masterpieces  of  Nature  whose  crea- 
tion appears  to  demand  as  its  right  all  the  happiness  of 
love.  Here  was  a  fair  young  face,  on  which  the  sun  of 
Spain  had  cast  faint  tones  of  bistre  which  added  to  its 
expression  of  seraphic  calmness  a  passionate  pride,  like 
a  flash  of  light  infused  beneath  that  diaphanous  com- 
plexion, —  due,  perhaps,  to  the  Moorish  blood  which 
vivified  and  colored  it.  Her  hair,  raised  to  the  top  of 
her  head,  fell  thence  with  black  reflections  round  the 
delicate  transparent  ears  and  defined  the  outlines  of  a 
blue-veined  throat.  These  luxuriant  locks  brought  into 
strong  relief  the  dazzling  eyes  and  the  scarlet  lips  of  a 
well-arched  mouth.  The  bodice  of  the  country  set  off 
the  lines  of  a  figure  that  swayed  as  easily  as  a  branch 
of  willow.  She  was  not  the  Virgin  of  Italy,  but  the 
Virgin  of  Spain,  of  Murillo,  the  only  artist  daring 
enough  to  have  painted  the  Mother  of  God  intoxicated 
with  the  joy  of  conceiving  the  Christ,  —  the  glowing 
imagination  of  the  boldest  and  also  the  warmest  of 
painters. 

In  this  young  girl  three  things  were  united,  a  single 
one  of  which  would  have  sufficed   for  the  glory  of  a 


Juana.  13 

woman :  the  purity  of  the  pearl  in  the  depths  of  ocean ; 
the  sublime  exaltation  of  the  Spanish  Saint  Teresa  ; 
and  a  passion  of  love  which  was  ignorant  of  itself. 
The  presence  of  such  a  woman  has  the  virtue  of  a 
talisman.  Montefiore  no  longer  felt  worn  and  jaded. 
That  young  girl  brought  back  his  youthful  freshness. 

But,  though  the  apparition  was  delightful,  it  did  not 
last.  The  girl  was  taken  back  to  the  secret  chamber, 
where  the  servant- woman  carried  to  her  openly  both 
light  and  food. 

"You  do  right  to  hide  her,"  said  Montefiore  in  Ital- 
ian. "I  will  keep  your  secret.  The  devil!  we  have 
generals  in  our  army  who  are  capable  of  abducting 
her." 

Montefiore's  infatuation  went  so  far  as  to  surest  to 
him  the  idea  of  marrying  her.  He  accordingly  asked 
her  history,  and  Perez  very  willingly  told  him  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  she  had  become  his  ward. 
The  prudent  Spaniard  was  led  to  make  this  confidence 
because  he  had  heard  of  Montefiore  in  Italy,  and  know- 
ing his  reputation  was  desirous  to  let  him  see  how 
strong  were  the  barriers  which  protected  the  young  girl 
from  the  possibility  of  seduction.  Though  the  good- 
man  was  gifted  with  a  certain  patriarchal  eloquence,  in 
keeping  with  his  simple  life  and  customs,  his  tale  will 
be  improved  by  abridgment. 

At  the  period  when  the  French  Revolution  changed 
the  manners  and  morals  of  every  country  which  served 
as  the  scene  of  its  wars,  a  street  prostitute  came  to 
Tarragona,  driven  from  Venice  at  the  time  of  its  fall. 
The  life  of  this  woman  had  been  a  tissue  of  romantic 
adventures   and  strange  vicissitudes.    To  her,  oftener 


14  Juana. 

than  to  any  other  woman  of  her  class,  it  had  happened, 
thanks  to  the  caprice  of  great  lords  struck  with  her  ex- 
traordinary beauty,  to  be  literally  gorged  with  gold  and 
jewels  and  all  the  delights  of  excessive  wealth, —  flowers, 
carriages,  pages,  maids,  palaces,  pictures,  journeys  (like 
those  of  Catherine  II.) ;  in  short,  the  life  of  a  queen,  des- 
potic in  her  caprices  and  obeyed,  often  beyond  her  own 
imaginings.  Then,  without  herself,  or  any  one,  chemist, 
physician,  or  man  of  science,  being  able  to  discover 
how  her  gold  evaporated,  she  would  find  herself  back  in 
the  streets,  poor,  denuded  of  everything,  preserving 
nothing  but  her  all-powerful  beauty,  yet  living  on  with- 
out thought  or  care  of  the  past,  the  present,  or  the 
future.  Cast,  in  her  poverty,  into  the  hands  of  some 
poor  gambling  officer,  she  attached  herself  to  him  as  a 
dog  to  its  master,  sharing  the  discomforts  of  the  mili- 
tary life,  which  indeed  she  comforted,  as  content  under 
the  roof  of  a  garret  as  beneath  the  silken  hangings  of 
opulence.  Italian  and  Spanish  both,  she  fulfilled  very 
scrupulously  the  duties  of  religion,  and  more  than  once 
she  had  said  to  love  :  — 

"  Return  to-morrow  ;  to-day  I  belong  to  God." 
But  this  slime  permeated  with  gold  and  perfumes, 
this  careless  indifference  to  all  things,  these  unbridled 
passions,  these  religious  beliefs  cast  into  that  heart 
like  diamonds  into  mire,  this  life  begun,  and  ended,  in 
a  hospital,  these  gambling  chances  transferred  to  the 
soul,  to  the  very  existence, —  in  short,  this  great  alchemy, 
for  which  vice  lit  the  fire  beneath  the  crucible  in  which 
fortunes  were  melted  up  and  the  gold  of  ancestors  and 
the  honor  of  great  names  evaporated,  proceeded  from 
a  cause,  a  peculiar  heredity,  faithfully  transmitted  from 


Juana.  15 

mother  to  daughter  since  the  middle  ages.  The  name 
of  this  woman  was  La  Mar  an  a.  In  her  family,  exist- 
ing solely  in  the  female  line,  the  idea,  person,  name 
and  power  of  a  father  had  been  completely  unknown 
since  the  thirteenth  century.  The  name  Marana  was  to 
her  what  the  designation  of  Stuart  is  to  the  celebrated 
royal  race  of  Scotland,  a  name  of  distinction  substi- 
tuted for  the  patronymic  name  by  the  constant  hered- 
ity of  the  same  office  devolving  on  the  family. 

Formerly,  in  France,  Spain,  and  Italy,  wrhen  those 
three  countries  had,  in  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth 
centuries,  mutual  interests  wmich  united  aud  disunited 
them  by  perpetual  warfare,  the  name  Marana  served  to 
express  in  its  general  sense,  a  prostitute.  In  those 
days  women  of  that  sort  had  a  certain  rank  in  the 
world  of  which  nothing  in  our  day  can  give  an 
idea.  Ninon  de  l'Enclos  and  Marian  Delorme  have 
alone  played,  in  France,  the  role  of  the  Imperias, 
Catalinas,  and  Maranas  who,  in  preceding  centuries, 
gathered  around  them  the  cassock,  gown,  and  sword. 
An  Imperia  built  I  forget  w7hich  church  in  Rome  in  a 
frenzy  of  repentance,  as  Rhodope  built,  in  earlier  times, 
a  pyramid  in  Egypt.  The  name  Marana,  inflicted  at  first 
as  a  disgrace  upon  the  singular  family  with  which  we  are 
now  concerned,  had  ended  by  becoming  its  veritable 
name  and  by  ennobling  its  vice  by  incontestable 
antiquity. 

One  day,  a  day  of  opulence  or  of  penury  I  know  not 
which,  for  this  event  was  a  secret  between  herself  and 
God,  but  assuredly  it  was  in  a  moment  of  repentance 
and  melancholy,  this  Marana  of  the  nineteenth  century 
stood  with  her  feet  in  the  slime  and  her  head  raised  to 


16  Juana. 

heaven.  She  cursed  the  blood  in  her  veins,  she  cursed 
herself,  she  trembled  lest  she  should  have  a  daughter, 
and  she  swore,  as  such  women  swear,  on  the  honor  and 
with  the  will  of  the  galleys  —  the  firmest  will,  the  most 
scrupulous  honor  that  there  is  on  earth  —  she  swore, 
before  an  altar,  and  believing  in  that  altar,  to  make 
her  daughter  a  virtuous  creature,  a  saint,  and  thus  to 
gain,  after  that  long  line  of  lost  women,  criminals  in 
love,  an  angel  in  heaven  for  them  all. 

The  vow  once  made,  the  blood  of  the  Maranas 
spoke ;  the  courtesan  returned  to  her  reckless  life, 
a  thought  the  more  within  her  heart.  At  last  she 
loved,  with  the  violent  love  of  such  women,  as  Henri- 
etta Wilson  loved  Lord  Ponsonb}^,  as  Mademoiselle 
Dupuis  loved  Bolingbroke,  as  the  Marchesa  Pescara 
loved  her  husband  —  but  no,  she  did  not  love,  she 
adored  one  of  those  fair  men,  half  women,  to  whom 
she  gave  the  virtues  which  she  had  not,  striving  to 
keep  for  herself  all  that  there  was  of  vice  between 
them.  It  was  from  that  weak  man,  that  senseless 
marriage  unblessed  by  God  or  man  which  happiness 
is  thought  to  justify,  but  which  no  happiness  absolves, 
and  for  which  men  blush  at  last,  that  she  had  a  daugh- 
ter, a  daughter  to  save,  a  daughter  for  whom  to  desire 
a  noble  life  and  the  chastity  she  had  not.  Henceforth, 
happy  or  not  happy,  opulent  or  beggared,  she  had  in 
her  heart  a  pure,  untainted  sentiment,  the  highest  of  all 
human  feelings  because  the  most  disinterested.  Love 
has  its  egotism,  but  motherhood  has  none.  La  Marana 
was  a  mother  like  none  other;  for,  in  her  total,  her 
eternal  shipwreck,  motherhood  might  still  redeem  her. 
To  accomplish  sacredly  through  life  the  task  of  send- 


J u<ma.  17 

ing  a  pure  soul  to  heaven,  was  not  that  a  better  thing 
than  a  tardy  repentance?  was  it  not,  in  truth,  the  only 
spotless  prayer  which  she  could  lift  to  God? 

So,  when  this  daughter,  when  her  Maria-Juana- 
Pepita  (she  would  fain  have  given  her  all  the  saints  in 
the  calendar  as  guardians),  when  this  dear  little  creature 
was  granted  to  her,  she  became  possessed  of  so  high  an 
idea  of  the  dignity  of  motherhood  that  she  entreated 
vice  to  grant  her  a  respite.  She  made  herself  virtuous 
and  lived  in  solitude.  No  more  fetes,  no  more  orgies, 
no  more  4ove.  All  joys,  all  fortunes  were  centred  now 
in  the  cradle  of  her  child.  The  tones  of  that  infant 
voice  made  an  oasis  for  her  soul  in  the  burning  sands 
of  her  existence.  That  sentiment  could  not  be  meas- 
ured or  estimated  by  any  other.  Did  it  not,  in  fact, 
comprise  all  human  sentiments,  all  heavenly  hopes? 
La  Marana  was  so  resolved  not  to  soil  her  daughter 
with  any  stain  other  than  that  of  birth,  that  she  sought 
to  invest  her  with  social  virtues ;  she  even  obliged  the 
young  father  to  settle  a  handsome  patrimony  upon  the 
child  and  to  give  her  his  name.  Thus  the  girl  was  not 
known  as  Juana  Marana,  but  as  Juana  di  Mancini. 

Then,  after  seven  years  of  joy,  and  kisses,  and  in- 
toxicating happiness,  the  time  came  when  the  poor 
Marana  deprived  herself  of  her  idol.  That  Juana 
might  never  bow  her  head  under  their  hereditary  shame, 
the  mother  had  the  courage  to  renounce  her  child  for  her 
child's  sake,  and  to  seek,  not  without  horrible  suffer- 
ing, for  another  mother,  another  home,  other  princi- 
ples to  follow,  other  and  saintlier  examples  to  imitate. 
The  abdication  of  a  mother  is  either  a  revolting  act  or 
a  sublime  one;  in  this  case,  was  it  not  sublime? 

2 


18  Juana. 

At  Tarragona  a  lucky  accident  threw  the  Lagounias 
in  her  way,  under  circumstances  which  enabled  her  to 
recognize  the  integrity  of  the  Spaniard  and  the  noble 
virtue  of  his  wife.  She  came  to  them  at  a  time  when 
her  proposal  seemed  that  of  a  liberating  angel.  The 
fortune  and  honor  of  the  merchant,  momentarily  com- 
promised, required  a  prompt  and  secret  succor.  La 
Mar  an  a  made  over  to  the  husband  the  whole  sum  she 
had  obtained  of  the  father  for  Juana's  dot.  requiring 
neither  acknowledgment  nor  interest.  According  to 
her  own  code  of  honor,  a  contract,  a  trust,  was  a  thing 
of  the  heart,  and  God  its  supreme  judge.  After 
stating  the  miseries  of  her  position  to  Dona  Lagounia, 
she  confided  her  daughter  and  her  daughter's  fortune 
to  the  fine  old  Spanish  honor,  pure  and  spotless,  which 
filled  the  precincts  of  that  ancient  house.  Dona  La- 
gounia  had  no  child,  and  she  was  only  too  happy  to  ob- 
tain one  to  nurture.  The  mother  then  parted  from  her 
Juana,  convinced  that  the  child's  future  was  safe,  and 
certain  of  having  found  her  a  mother,  a  mother  who 
would  bring  her  up  as  a  Mancini,  and  not  as  a  Marana. 

Leaving  her  child  in  the  simple  modest  house  of  the 
merchant  where  the  burgher  virtues  reigned,  where 
religion  and  sacred  sentiments  and  honor  filled  the 
air,  the  poor  prostitute,  the  disinherited  mother  was 
enabled  to  bear  her  trial  by  visions  of  Juana,  virgin, 
wife,  and  mother,  a  mother  throughout  her  life.  On 
the  threshold  of  that  house  the  Marana  left  a  tear  such 
as  the  angels  garner  up. 

Since  that  day  of  mourning  and  hope  the  mother, 
drawn  by  some  invincible  presentiment,  had  thrice  re- 
turned to  see  her  daughter.  Once  when  Juana  fell  ill 
with  a  dangerous  complaint : 


Juana.  19 

"  I  knew  it,"  she  said  to  Perez  when  she  reached  the 
house. 

Asleep,  she  had  seen  her  Juana  dying.  She  nursed 
her  and  watched  her,  until  one  morning,  sure  of  the 
girl's  convalescence,  she  kissed  her,  still  asleep,  on  the 
forehead  and  left  her  without  betraying  whom  she  was. 
A  second  time  the  Marana  came  to  the  church  where 
Juana  made  her  first  communion.  Simply  dressed, 
concealing  herself  behind  a  column,  the  exiled  mother 
recognized  herself  in  her  daughter  such  as  she  once 
had  been,  pure  as  the  snow  fresh-fallen  on  the  Alps. 
A  courtesan  even  in  maternity,  the  Marana  felt  in  the 
depths  of  her  soul  a  jealous  sentiment,  stronger  for 
the  moment  than  that  of  love,  and  she  left  the  church, 
incapable  of  resisting  any  longer  the  desire  to  kill 
Doiia  Lagounia,  as  she  sat  there,  with  radiant  face,  too 
much  the  mother  of  her  child.  A  third  and  last  meet- 
ing had  taken  place  between  mother  and  daughter  in 
the  streets  of  Milan,  to  which  city  the  merchant  and 
his  wife  had  paid  a  visit.  The  Marana  drove  through 
the  Corso  in  all  the  splendor  of  a  sovereign ;  she 
passed  her  daughter  like  a  flash  of  lightning  and  was 
not  recognized.  Horrible  anguish  !  To  this  Marana, 
surfeited  with  kisses,  one  was  lacking,  a  single  one, 
for  which  she  would  have  bartered  all  the  others  :  the 
joyous,  girlish  kiss  of  a  daughter  to  a  mother,  an  hon- 
ored mother,  a  mother  in  whom  shone  all  the  domestic 
virtues.  Juana  living  was  dead  to  her.  One  thought 
revived  the  soul  of  the  courtesan  —  a  precious  thought ! 
Juana  was  henceforth  safe.  She  might  be  the  humblest 
of  women,  but  at  least  she  was  not  what  her  mother 
was  —  an  infamous  courtesan. 


20  Juana. 

The  merchant  and  his  wife  had  fulfilled  their  trust 
with  scrupulous  integrity.  Juana's  fortune,  managed 
by  them,  had  increased  tenfold.  Perez  de  Lagounia, 
now  the  richest  merchant  in  the  provinces,  felt  for  the 
young  girl  a  sentiment  that  was  semi-superstitious. 
Her  money  had  preserved  his  ancient  house  from  dis- 
honorable ruin,  and  the  presence  of  so  precious  a  crea- 
ture had  brought  him  untold  prosperity.  His  wife,  a 
heart  of  gold,  and  full  of  delicacy,  had  made  the  child 
religious,  and  as  pure  as  she  was  beautiful.  Juana 
might  well  become  the  wife  of  either  a  great  seigneur 
or  a  wealthy  merchant ;  she  lacked  no  virtue  neces- 
sary to  the  highest  destiny.  Perez  had  intended  taking 
her  to  Madrid  and  marrying  her  to  some  grandee,  but 
the  events  of  the  present  war  delayed  the  fulfilment 
of  this  project. 

"I  don't  know  where  the  Marana  now  is,"  said 
Perez,  ending  the  above  history,  "  but  in  whatever 
quarter  of  the  world  she  may  be  living,  when  she  hears 
of  the  occupation  of  our  province  by  your  armies,  and 
of  the  siege  of  Tarragona,  she  will  assuredly  set  out  at 
once  to  come  here  and  see  to  her  daughter's  safety." 


Juana.  21 


II. 


ACTION. 

The  foregoing  narrative  changed  the  intentions  of 
the  Italian  captain ;  no  longer  did  he  think  of  making 
a  Marchesa  di  Montefiore  of  Juana  di  Mancini.  He 
recognized  the  blood  of  the  Maranas  in  the  glance  the 
girl  had  given  from  behind  the  blinds,  in  the  trick 
she  had  just  played  to  satisfy  her  curiosity,  and  also 
in  the  parting  look  she  had  cast  upon  him.  The  liber- 
tine wanted  a  virtuous  woman  for  a  wife. 

The  adventure  was  full  of  danger,  but  danger  of  a 
kind  that  never  daunts  the  least  courageous  man,  for 
love  and  pleasure  followed  it.  The  apprentice  sleeping 
in  the  shop,  the  cook  bivouacking  in  the  kitchen,  Perez 
and  his  wife  sleeping,  no  doubt,  the  wakeful  sleep  of  the 
aged,  the  echoing  sonority  of  the  old  mansion,  the  close 
surveillance  of  the  girl  in  the  day-time,  —  all  these 
things  were  obstacles,  and  made  success  a  thing  well- 
nigh  impossible.  But  Montefiore  had  in  his  favor 
against  all  impossibilities  the  blood  of  the  Maranas 
which  gushed  in  the  heart  of  that  inquisitive  girl, 
Italian  by  birth,  Spanish  in  principles,  virgin  indeed, 
but  impatient  to  love.  Passion,  the  girl,  and  Montefiore 
were  ready  and  able  to  defy  the  whole  universe. 

Montefiore,  impelled  as  much  by  the  instinct  of  a 
man  of  gallantry  as  by  those  vague  hopes  which  cannot 


22  Juana. 

be  explained,  and  to  which  we  give  the  name  of  presen- 
timents (a  word  of  astonishing  verbal  accuracy), 
Montefiore  spent  the  first  hours  of  the  night  at  his  win- 
dow, endeavoring  to  look  below  him  to  the  secret 
apartment  where,  undoubtedly,  the  merchant  and  his 
wife  had  hidden  the  love  and  joyfulness  of  their  old 
age.  The  wareroom  of  the  entresol  separated  him  from 
the  rooms  on  the  ground-floor.  The  captain  therefore 
could  not  have  recourse  to  noises  significantly  made 
from  one  floor  to  the  other,  an  artificial  language  which 
all  lovers  know  well  how  to  create.  But  chance,  or  it 
may  have  been  the  young  girl  herself,  came  to  his  as- 
sistance. At  the  moment  when  he  stationed  himself  at 
his  window,  he  saw,  on  the  black  wall  of  the  courtyard, 
a  circle  of  light,  in  the  centre  of  which  the  silhouette  of 
Juana  was  clearly  defined  ;  the  consecutive  movement 
of  the  arms,  and  the  attitude,  gave  evidence  that  she 
was  arranging  her  hair  for  the  night. 

"  Is  she  alone?"  Montefiore  asked  himself;  "  could 
I,  without  danger,  lower  a  letter  filled  with  coin  and 
strike  it  against  that  circular  window  in  her  hiding- 
place  ?  " 

At  once  he  wrote  a  note,  the  note  of  a  man  exiled  by 
his  family  to  Elba,  the  note  of  a  degraded  marquis  now 
a  mere  captain  of  equipment.  Then  he  made  a  cord 
of  whatever  he  could  find  that  was  capable  of  being 
turned  into  string,  filled  the  note  with  a  few  silver 
crowns,  and  lowered  it  in  the  deepest  silence  to  the  cen- 
tre of  that  spherical  gleam. 

"  The  shadows  will  show  if  her  mother  or  the  servant 
is  with  her,"  thought  Montefiore.  "  If  she  is  not  alone, 
I  can  pull  up  the  string  at  once." 


Juana.  23 

But,  after  succeeding  with  infinite  trouble  in  striking 
the  gkiss,  a  single  form,  the  lithe  figure  of  Juana, 
appeared  upon  the  wall.  The  young  girl  opened  her 
window  cautiously,  saw  the  note,  took  it,  and  stood 
before  the  window  while  she  read  it.  In  it,  Montefiore 
had  given  Ins  name  and  asked  for  an  interview,  offering, 
after  the  style  of  the  old  romances,  his  heart  and  hand 
to  the  Signorina  Juana  di  Mancini  —  a  common  trick, 
the  success  of  which  is  nearly  always  certain.  At 
Juana's  age,  nobility  of  soul  increases  the  dangers 
which  surround  youth.  A  poet  of  our  day  has  said : 
"  Woman  succumbs  only  to  her  own  nobilit}'.  The 
lover  pretends  to  doubt  the  love  he  inspires  at  the  mo- 
ment wdien  he  is  most  beloved ;  the  }Toung  girl,  confi- 
dent and  proud,  longs  to  make  sacrifices  to  prove  her 
love,  and  knows  the  world  and  men  too  little  to  continue 
calm  in  the  midst  of  her  rising  emotions  and  repel  with 
contempt  the  man  who  accepts  a  life  offered  in  expi- 
ation of  a  false  reproach." 

Ever  since  the  constitution  of  societies  the  young 
girl  finds  herself  torn  by  a  struggle  between  the  caution 
of  prudent  virtue  and  the  evils  of  wrong-doing.  Often 
she  loses  a  love,  delightful  in  prospect,  and  the  first, 
if  she  resists ;  on  the  other  hand,  she  loses  a  marriage 
if  she  is  imprudent.  Casting  a  glance  over  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  social  life  in  Paris,  it  is  impossible  to  doubt 
the  necessity  of  religion ;  and  yet  Paris  is  situated  in 
the  forty-eighth  degree  of  latitude,  while  Tarragona  is 
in  the  forty-first.  The  old  question  of  climates  is  still 
useful  to  narrators  to  explain  the  sudden  denouements, 
the  imprudences,  or  the  resistances  of  love. 

Montefiore  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  exquisite  black 


24  Jaana. 

profile  projected  by  the  gleam  upon  the  wall.  Neither 
he  nor  Juana  could  see  each  other ;  a  troublesome 
cornice,  vexatiously  placed,  deprived  them  of  the  mute 
correspondence  which  may  be  established  between  a 
pair  of  lovers  as  they  bend  to  each  other  from  their 
windows.  Thus  the  mind  and  the  attention  of  the  cap- 
tain were  concentrated  on  that  luminous  circle  where, 
without  perhaps  knowing  it  herself,  the  young  girl 
would,  he  thought,  innocently  reveal  her  thoughts  by  a 
series  of  gestures.  But  no  !  The  singular  motions  she 
proceeded  to  make  gave  not  a  particle  of  hope  to  the 
expectant  lover.  Juana  was  amusing  herself  by  cutting 
up  his  missive.  But  virtue  and  innocence  sometimes 
imitate  the  clever  proceedings  inspired  by  jealousy  to 
the  Bartholos  of  comedy.  Juana,  without  pens,  ink, 
or  paper,  was  replying  by  snips  of  scissors.  Presently 
she  refastened  the  note  to  the  string ;  the  officer  drew  it 
up,  opened  it,  and  read  by  the  light  of  his  lamp  one 
word,  carefully  cut  out  of  the  paper :  Come. 

"  Come  !  "  he  said  to  himself ;  "  but  what  of  poison? 
or  the  dagger  or  carbine  of  Perez  ?  And  that  appren- 
tice not  yet  asleep,  perhaps,  in  the  shop?  and  the  ser- 
vant in  her  hammock?  Besides,  this  old  house  echoes 
the  slightest  sound ;  I  can  hear  old  Perez  snoring 
even  here.  Come,  indeed!  She  can  have  nothing 
more  to  lose." 

Bitter  reflection  !  rakes  alone  are  logical  and  will 
punish  a  woman  for  devotion.  Man  created  Satan  and 
Lovelace ;  but  a  virgin  is  an  angel  on  whom  he  can 
bestow  naught  but  his  own  vices.  She  is  so  grand, 
so  beautiful,  that  he  cannot  magnify  or  embellish  her; 
he  has  only  the  fatal  power  to  blast  her  and  drag  her 
down  into  his  own  mire. 


Juana.  25 

Montefiore  waited  for  a  later  and  more  somnolent 
hour  of  the  night;  then,  in  spite  of  his  reflections,  he 
descended  the  stairs  without  boots,  armed  with  his 
pistols,  moving  step  by  step,  stopping  to  question  the 
silence,  putting  forth  his  hands,  measuring  the  stairs, 
peering  into  the  darkness,  and  ready  at  the  slightest 
incident  to  fly  back  into  his  room.  The  Italian  had  put 
on  his  handsomest  uniform  ;  he  had  perfumed  his  black 
hair,  and  now  shone  with  the  particular  brilliancy  which 
dress  and  toilet  bestow  upon  natural  beauty.  Under 
such  circumstances  most  men  are  as  feminine  as  a 
woman. 

The  marquis  arrived  without  hindrance  before  the 
secret  door  of  the  room  in  which  the  girl  was  hidden, 
a  sort  of  cell  made  in  the  angle  of  the  house  and 
belonging  exclusively  to  Juana,  who  had  remained 
there  hidden  during  the  day  from  every  eye  while  the 
siege  lasted.  Up  to  the  present  time  she  had  slept  in 
the  room  of  her  adopted  mother,  but  the  limited  space 
in  the  garret  where  the  merchant  and  his  wife  had  gone 
to  make  room  for  the  officer  who  was  billeted  upon 
them,  did  not  allow  of  her  going  with  them.  Doiia 
Lagounia  had  therefore  left  the  young  girl  to  the  guar- 
dianship of  lock  and  key,  under  the  protection  of 
religious  ideas,  all  the  more  efficacious  because  they 
were  partly  superstitious,  aud  also  under  the  shield  of 
a  native  pride  aud  sensitive  modesty  which  made  the 
young  Mancini  in  some  sort  an  exception  among  her 
sex.  Juana  possessed  in  an  equal  degree  the  most 
attaching  virtues  and  the  most  passionate  impulses ; 
she  had  needed  the  modesty  and  sanctity  of  this  monot- 
onous life  to  calm  and  cool  the  tumultuous  blood  of 


26  Juana. 

the  Maranas  which  bounded  in  her  heart,  the  desires 
of  which  her  adopted  mother  told  her  were  an  instiga- 
tion of  the  devil. 

A  faint  ray  of  light  traced  along  the  sill  of  the  secret 
door  guided  Montefiore  to  the  place ;  he  scratched  the 
panel  softly  and  Juana  opened  to  him.  Montefiore 
entered,  palpitating,  but  he  recognized  in  the  expres- 
sion of  the  girl's  face  complete  ignorance  of  her  peril, 
a  sort  of  naive  curiosity,  and  an  innocent  admiration. 
He  stopped  short,  arrested  for  a  moment  by  the  sacred- 
ness  of  the  picture  which  met  his  eyes. 

He  saw  before  him  a  tapestry  on  the  walls  with  a 
gray  ground  sprinkled  with  violets,  a  little  coffer  of 
ebony,  an  antique  mirror,  an  immense  and  very  old 
arm  chair  also  in  ebony  and  covered  with  tapestry,  a 
table  with  twisted  legs,  a  pretty  carpet  on  the  floor, 
near  the  table  a  single  chair ;  and  that  was  all.  On  the 
table,  however,  were  flowers  and  embroidery ;  in  a 
recess  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  was  the  narrow  little 
bed  where  Juana  dreamed.  Above  the  bed  were  three 
pictures ;  and  near  the  pillow  a  crucifix,  with  a  holy 
water  basin  and  a  prayer,  printed  in  letters  of  gold 
and  framed.  Flowers  exhaled  their  perfume  faiutly ; 
the  candles  cast  a  tender  light ;  all  was  calm  and  pure 
and  sacred.  The  dreamy  thoughts  of  Juana,  but 
above  all  Juana  herself,  had  communicated  to  all  things 
her  own  peculiar  charm  ;  her  soul  appeared  to  shine 
there,  like  the  pearl  in  its  matrix.  Juana,  dressed  in 
white,  beautiful  with  naught  but  her  own  beauty,  lay- 
ing down  her  rosary  to  answer  love,  might  have 
inspired  respect,  even  in  a  Montefiore,  if  the  silence,  if 
the  night,  if  Juana  herself  had  not  seemed  so  amorous. 


Juana.  27 

Montefiore  stood  still,  intoxicated  with  an  unknown 
happiness,  possibly  that  of  Satan  beholding  heaven 
through  a  rift  of  the  clouds  which  form  its  enclosure. 

"  As  soon  as  I  saw  you,"  he  said  in  pure  Tuscan, 
and  in  the  modest  tone  of  voice  so  peculiarly  Italian, 
"  I  loved  you.  My  soul  and  my  life  are  now  in  you, 
and  in  you  they  will  be  forever,  if  you  will  have  it  so." 

Juana  listened,  inhaling  from  the  atmosphere  the 
sound  of  these  words  which  the  accents  of  love  made 
magnificent. 

"  Poor  child !  how  have  you  breathed  so  long  the  air 
of  this  dismal  house  without  dying  of  it?  You,  made 
to  reign  in  the  world,  to  inhabit  the  palace  of  -a  prince, 
to  live  in  the  midst  of  fetes,  to  feel  the  joys  which  love 
bestows,  to  see  the  world  at  your  feet,  to  efface  all  other 
beauty  by  your  own  which  can  have  no  rival  —  you,  to 
live  here,  solitary,  with  those  two  shopkeepers !  " 

Adroit  question  !  He  wished  to  know  if  Juana  had  a 
lover. 

"  True,"  she  replied.  "  But  who  can  have  told  you 
my  secret  thoughts  ?  For  the  last  few  months  I  have 
nearly  died  of  sadness.  Yes,  I  would  rather  die  than 
stay  longer  in  this  house.  Look  at  that  embroidery ; 
there  is  not  a  stitch  there  which  I  did  not  set  with 
dreadful  thoughts.  How  many  times  I  have  thought 
of  escaping  to  fling  myself  into  the  sea!  Why?  I 
don't  know  why,  —  little  childish  troubles,  but  very 
keen,  though  they  are  so  silly.  Often  I  have  kissed 
my  mother  at  night  as  one  would  kiss  a  mother  for  the 
last  time,  saying  in  my  heart :  '  To-morrow  I  will  kill 
myself.'  But  I  do  not  die.  Suicides  go  to  hell,  you 
know,  and  I  am  so  afraid  of  hell  that  I  resign  myself 


28  Juana. 

to  live,  to  get  up  in  the  morning  and  go  to  bed  at  night, 
and  work  the  same  hours,  and  do  the  same  things.  I 
am  not  so  weary  of  it,  but  I  suffer  —  And  yet,  my 
father  and  mother  adore  me.  Oh !  I  am  bad,  I  am 
bad;  I  say  so  to  my  confessor." 

"  Do  you  always  live  here  alone,  without  amusement, 
without  pleasures?  " 

"  Oh!  I  have  not  always  been  like  this.  Till  I  was 
fifteen  the  festivals  of  the  church,  the  chants,  the 
music  gave  me  pleasure.  I  was  happy,  feeling  myself 
like  the  angels  without  sin  and  able  to  communicate 
every  week  —  I  loved  God  then.  But  for  the  last  three 
years,  from  day  to  day,  all  things  have  changed. 
First,  I  wanted  flowers  here  —  and  I  have  them,  lovely 
flowers  !  Then  I  wanted  —  but  I  want  nothing  now," 
she  added,  after  a  pause,  smiling  at  Montefiore.  "  Have 
you  not  said  that  you  would  love  me  always  ? '! 

"  Yes,  my  Juana,"  cried  Montefiore,  softly,  taking 
her  round  the  waist  and  pressing  her  to  his  heart,  "  yes. 
But  let  me  speak  to  you  as  you  speak  to  God.  Are 
you  not  as  beautiful  as  Mary  in  heaven?  Listen.  I 
swear  to  you,"  he  continued,  kissing  her  hair,  "  I  swear 
to  take  that  forehead  for  my  altar,  to  make  you  my 
idol,  to  lay  at  your  feet  all  the  luxuries  of  the  world. 
For  you,  my  palace  at  Milan ;  for  you  my  horses,  my 
jewels,  the  diamonds  of  my  ancient  family ;  for  you, 
each  day,  fresh  jewels,  a  thousand  pleasures,  and  all 
the  joys  of  earth  !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said  reflectively,  "  I  would  like  that ;  but 
I  feel  within  my  soul  that  I  would  like  better  than  all 
the  world  my  husband.  Mio  caro  sposof"  she  said, 
as  if  it  were  impossible  to  give  in  any  other  language 


Juana.  29 

the  infinite  tenderness,  the  loving  elegance  with  which 
the  Italian  tongue  and  accent  clothe  those  delightful 
words.  Besides,  Italian  was  Juana's  maternal  lan- 
guage. 

"I  should  find,"  she  continued,  with  a  glance  at 
Moutefiore  in  which  shone  the  purity  of  the  cherubim, 
"  I  should  find  in  him  my  dear  religion,  him  and  God 
—  God  and  him.  Is  he  to  be  you?  '  she  said.  "Yes, 
surely  it  will  be  you,"  she  cried,  after  a  pause.  "  Come, 
and  see  the  picture  my  father  brought  me  from  Italy." 

She  took  a  candle,  made  a  sign  to  Montefiore,  and 
showed  him  at  the  foot  of  her  bed  a  Saint  Michael 
overthrowing  the  demon. 

"  Look  !  "  she  said,  "  has  he  not  your  eyes?  When 
I  saw  you  from  my  window  in  the  street,  our  meeting 
seemed  to  me  a  sign  from  heaven.  Every  day  during 
my  morning  meditation,  while  waiting  for  my  mother 
to  call  me  to  prayer,  I  have  so  gazed  at  that  picture, 
that  angel,  that  I  have  ended  by  thinking  him  my  hus- 
band —  oh !  heavens,  I  speak  to  you  as  though  you 
were  myself.  I  must  seem  crazy  to  you ;  but  if  you 
only  knew  how  a  poor  captive  wants  to  tell  the 
thoughts  that  choke  her !  When  alone,  I  talk  to  my 
flowers,  to  my  tapestry ;  they  can  understand  me  bet- 
ter, I  think,  than  my  father  and  mother,  who  are  so 
grave." 

"Juana,"  said  Montefiore,  taking  her  hands  and 
kissing  them  with  the  passion  that  gushed  in  his  eyes, 
in  his  gestures,  in  the  tones  of  his  voice,  "  speak  to 
me  as  your  husband,  as  yourself.  I  have  suffered  all 
that  you  have  suffered.  Between  us  two  few  words 
are  needed  to  make  us  comprehend  our  past,  but  there 


30  Juana. 

will  never  be  enough  to  express  our  coming  happiness. 
Lay  your  hand  upon  my  heart.  Feel  how  it  beats. 
Let  us  promise  before  God,  who  sees  and  hears  us,  to 
be  faithful  to  each  other  throughout  our  lives.  Here, 
take  my  ring  —  and  give  me  yours." 

"  Give  you  my  ring !  "  she  said  in  terror. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Montefiore,  uneasy  at  such 
artlessness. 

"  But  our  holy  father  the  Pope  has  blessed  it ;  it  was 
put  upon  my  finger  in  childhood  by  a  beautiful  lady 
who  took  care  of  me,  and  who  told  me  never  to  part 
with  it." 

"  Juana,  you  cannot  love  me  !  " 

"Ah!"  she  said,  "here  it  is;  take  it.  You,  are 
you  not  another  myself  ?  " 

She  held  out  the  ring  with  a  trembling  hand,  holding 
it  tightly  as  she  looked  at  Montefiore  with  a  clear  and 
piercing  eye  that  questioned  him.  That  ring !  all  of 
herself  was  in  it ;   but  she  gave  it  to  him. 

"Oh,  my  Juana!"  said  Montefiore,  again  pressing 
her  in  his  arms.  "  I  should  be  a  monster  indeed  if  I 
deceived  you.     I  will  love  you  forever." 

Juana  was  thoughtful.  Montefiore,  reflecting  that 
in  this  first  interview  he  ought  to  venture  upon  nothing 
that  might  frighten  a  young  girl  so  ignorantly  pure,  so 
imprudent  by  virtue  rather  than  from  desire,  postponed 
all  further  action  to  the  future,  relying  on  his  beauty, 
of  which  he  knew  the  power,  and  on  this  innocent 
ring-marriage,  the  hymen  of  the  heart,  the  lightest,  yet 
the  strongest  of  all  ceremonies.  For  the  rest  of  that 
night,  and  throughout  the  next  day,  Juana's  imagination 
was  the  accomplice  of  her  passion. 


Juana.  31 

On  this  first  evening  Montefiore  forced  himself  to  be 
as  respectful  as  he  was  tender.  With  that  intention,  in 
the  interests  of  his  passion  and  the  desires  with  which 
Juana  inspired  him,  he  was  caressing  and  unctuous  in 
language ;  he  launched  the  young  creature  into  plans 
for  a  new  existence,  described  to  her  the  world  under 
slowing    colors,    talked   to    her  of   household    details 

O  ©  7 

always  attractive  to  the  mind  of  girls,  giving  her  a 
sense  of  the  rights  and  realities  of  love.  Then,  having 
agreed  upon  the  hour  for  their  future  nocturnal  inter- 
views, he  left  her  happy,  but  changed ;  the  pure  and 
pious  Juana  existed  no  longer ;  in  the  last  glance  she 
gave  him,  in  the  pretty  movement  by  which  she  brought 
her  forehead  to  his  lips,  there  was  already  more  of  pas- 
sion than  a  girl  should  feel.  Solitude,  weariness  of 
employments  contrary  to  her  nature  had  brought  this 
about.  To  make  the  daughter  of  the  Maranas  truly 
virtuous,  she  ought  to  have  been  habituated,  little  by 
little,  to  the  world,  or  else  to  have  been  wholly  with- 
drawn from  it. 

"  The  day,  to-morrow,  will  seem  very  long  to  me," 
she  said,  receiving  his  kisses  on  her  forehead.  "But 
stay  in  the  salon,  and  speak  loud,  that  I  may  hear 
your  voice  ;  it  fills  my  soul." 

Montefiore,  clever  enough  to  imagine  the  girl's  life, 
was  all  the  more  satisfied  with  himself  for  restraining 
his  desires  because  he  saw  that  it  would  lead  to  his 
greater  contentment.  He  returned  to  his  room  without 
accident. 

Ten  days  went  by  without  any  event  occurring  to 
trouble  the  peace  and  solitude  of  the  house.  Moutefiore 
employed  his  Italian  cajolery  on  old  Perez,  on  Dona 


32  Juana. 

Lagounia,  on  the  apprentice,  even  on  the  cook,  and 
they  all  liked  him  ;  but,  in  spite  of  the  confidence  he 
now  inspired  in  them,  he  never  asked  to  see  Juana, 
or  to  have  the  door  of  her  nvysterious  hiding-place 
opened  to  him.  The  young  girl,  hungry  to  see  her 
lover,  implored  him  to  do  so ;  but  he  always  refused 
her  from  an  instinct  of  prudence.  Besides,  he  had 
used  his  best  powers  and  fascinations  to  lull  the  sus- 
picions of  the  old  couple,  and  had  now  accustomed 
them  to  see  him,  a  soldier,  stay  in  bed  till  midday  on 
pretence  that  he  was  ill.  Thus  the  lovers  lived  only 
in  the  night-time,  when  the  rest  of  the  household  were 
asleep.  If  Montefiore  had  not  been  one  of  those  liber- 
tines whom  the  habit  of  gallantry  enables  to  retain 
their  self-possession  under  all  circumstances,  he  might 
have  been  lost  a  dozen  times  during  those  ten  days. 
A  young  lover,  in  the  simplicity  of  a  first  love,  would 
have  committed  the  enchanting  imprudences  which  are 
so  difficult  to  resist.  But  he  did  resist  even  Juana 
herself,  Juana  pouting,  Juana  making  her  long  hair  a 
chain  which  she  wound  about  his  neck  when  caution 
told  him  he  must  go. 

The  most  suspicious  of  guardians  would  however 
have  been  puzzled  to  detect  the  secret  of  their  nightly 
meetings.  It  is  to  be  supposed  that,  sure  of  success, 
the  Italian  marquis  gave  himself  the  ineffable  pleasures 
of  a  slow  seduction,  step  by  step,  leading  gradually  to 
the  fire  which  should  end  the  affair  in  a  conflagration. 
On  the  eleventh  day,  at  the  dinner-table,  he  thought  it 
wise  to  inform  old  Perez,  under  seal  of  secrecy,  that  the 
reason  of  his  separation  from  his  family  was  an  ill- 
assorted  marriage.     This  false  revelation  was  an  in- 


Juana.  33 

famous  thinsj  in  view  of  the  nocturnal  drama  which 
was  being  played  under  that  roof.  Montefiore,  an  ex- 
perienced rake,  was  preparing  for  the  finale  of  that 
drama  which  he  foresaw  and  enjoyed  as  an  artist  who 
loves  his  art.  He  expected  to  leave  before  long,  and 
without  regret,  the  house  and  his  love.  It  would  hap- 
pen, he  thought,  in  this  way :  Juana,  after  waiting  for 
him  in  vain  for  several  nights,  would  risk  her  life,  per- 
haps, in  asking  Perez  what  had  become  of  his  guest ; 
and  Perez  would  reply,  not  aware  of  the  importance  of 
his  answer,  — 

"The  Marquis  de  Montefiore  is  reconciled  to  his 
family,  who  consent  to  receive  his  wife ;  he  has  gone  to 
Italy  to  present  her  to  them." 

And  Juana?  —  The  marquis  never  asked  himself 
what  would  become  of  Juana;  but  he  had  studied  her 
character,  its  nobility,  candor,  and  strength,  and  he 
knew   he   might   be    sure    of   her    silence. 

He  obtained  a  mission  from  one  of  the  generals. 
Three  days  later,  on  the  night  preceding  his  intended 
departure,  Montefiore,  instead  of  returning  to  his  own 
room  after  dinner,  contrived  to  enter  unseen  that  of 
Juana,  to  make  that  farewell  night  the  longer.  Juana, 
true  Spaniard  and  true  Italian,  was  enchanted  with 
such  boldness ;  it  argued  ardor !  For  herself  she  did 
not  fear  discovery.  To  find  in  the  pure  love  of 
marriage  the  excitements  of  intrigue,  to  hide  her  hus- 
band behind  the  curtains  of  her  bed,  and  say  to  her 
adopted  father  and  mother,  in  case  of  detection  :  ' ' 1 
am  the  Marquise  de  Montefiore  !  "  —  was  to  an  ignorant 
and  romantic  young  girl,  who  for  three  years  past 
had  dreamed  of  love  without  dreaming  of  its  dangers, 

3 


34  Juana. 

delightful.  The  door  closed  on  this  last  evening  upon 
her  folly,  her  happiness,  like  a  veil,  which  it  is  useless 
here  to  raise. 

It  was  nine  o'clock ;  the  merchant  and  his  wife  were 
reading  their  evening  prayers ;  suddenly  the  noise  of  a 
carriage  drawn  by  several  horses  resounded  in  the  street ; 
loud  and  hasty  raps  echoed  from  the  shop  where  the 
servant  hurried  to  open  the  door,  and  into  that  vener- 
able salon  rushed  a  woman,  magnificently  dressed  in 
spite  of  the  mud  upon  the  wheels  of  her  travelling-car- 
riage, which  had  just  crossed  Italy,  France,  and  Spain. 
It  was,  of  course,  the  Marana,  —  the  Marana  who,  in 
spite  of  her  thirty-six  years,  was  still  in  all  the  glory 
of  her  ravishing  beauty ;  the  Marana  who,  being  at 
that  time  the  mistress  of  a  king,  had  left  Naples,  the 
fetes,  the  skies  of  Naples,  the  climax  of  her  life  of 
luxury,  on  hearing  from  her  royal  lover  of  the  events  in 
Spain  and  the  siege  of  Tarragona. 

4 'Tarragona!  I  must  get  to  Tarragona  before  the 
town  is  taken!"  she  cried.  "Ten  days  to  reach 
Tarragona !  " 

Then  without  caring  for  court  or  crown,  she  arrived 
in  Tarragona,  furnished  with  an  almost  imperial  safe- 
conduct  ;  furnished  too  with  gold  which  enabled  her  to 
cross  France  with  the  velocity  of  a  rocket. 

"  My  daughter !  my  daughter ! "  cried  the  Marana. 

At  this  voice,  and  this  abrupt  invasion  of  their  soli- 
tude, the  prayer-book  fell  from  the  hands  of  the  old 
couple. 

44  She  is  there,"  replied  the  merchant,  calmly,  after 
a  pause  during  which  he  recovered  from  the  emotion 
caused  by  the  abrupt  entrance,  and  the  look  and  voice 


Juana.  35 

of  the  mother.     "  She  is  there,"  he  repeated,  pointing 
to  the  door  of  the  little  chamber. 

"  Yes,  but  has  any  harm  come  to  her ;  is  she  still  —  " 

"  Perfectly  well,"  said  Doila  Lagounia. 

"  O  God  !  send  me  to  hell  if  it  so  pleases  thee!" 
cried  the  Marana,  dropping,  exhausted  and  half  dead, 
into  a  chair. 

The  flush  in  her  cheeks,  due  to  anxiety,  paled  sud- 
denly ;  she  had  strength  to  endure  suffering,  but  none 
to  bear  this  joy.  Joy  was  more  violent  in  her  soul  than 
suffering,  for  it  contained  the  echoes  of  her  pain  and 
the  agonies  of  its  own  emotion. 

"But,"  she  said,  "how  have  you  kept  her  safe? 
Tarragona  is  taken." 

"Yes,"  said  Perez,  "but  since  you  see  me  living 
why  do  you  ask  that  question?  Should  I  not  have 
died  before  harm  could  have  come  to  Juana?  " 

At  that  answer,  the  Marana  seized  the  calloused  hand 
of  the  old  man,  and  kissed  it,  wetting  it  with  the  tears 
that  flowed  from  her  eyes  —  she  who  never  wept ! 
those  tears  were  all  she  had  most  precious  under 
heaven. 

"  My  good  Perez  !  "  she  said  at  last.  "  But  have 
you  had  no  soldiers  quartered  in  your  house?  " 

1 '  Only  one,"  replied  the  Spaniard.     ' '  Fortunately  for 
us  the  most  loyal  of  men ;  a   Spaniard   by   birth,  but 
now  an  Italian  who  hates  Bonaparte  ;  a  married  man. 
He  is  ill,  and  gets  up  late  and  goes  to  bed  early." 
"  An  Italian  !     What  is  his  name?" 
"Montefiore." 

"  Can  it  be  the  Marquis  de  Montefiore  —  " 
"  Yes,  Senora,  he  himself." 


36  Juana. 

"  Has  he  seen  Juana?  " 

"  No,"  said  Doiia  Lagounia. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  wife,"  said  Perez.  "  The  mar- 
quis must  have  seen  her  for  a  moment,  a  short  moment, 
it  is  true ;  but  I  think  he  looked  at  her  that  evening  she 
came  in  here  during  supper." 

"  Ah,  let  me  see  my  daughter!  " 

"  Nothing  easier,"  said  Perez  ;  "  she  is  now  asleep.  If 
she  has  left  the  key  in  the  lock  we  must  waken  her." 

As  he  rose  to  take  the  duplicate  key  of  Juana's  door 
his  eyes  fell  by  chance  on  the  circular  gleam  of  light 
upon  the  black  wall  of  the  inner  courtyard.  Within 
that  circle  he  saw  the  shadow  of  a  group  such  as 
Canova  alone  has  attempted  to  render.  The  Spaniard 
turned  back. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said  to  the  Marana,  "  where  to 
find  the  key." 

u  You  are  very  pale,"  she  said. 

4 'And  I  will  show  you  why,"  he  cried,  seizing  his 
dagger  and  rapping  its  hilt  violently  on  Juana's  door 
as  he  shouted,  — 

"  Open  !  open !  open  !  Juana  ! " 

Juana  did  not  open,  for  she  needed  time  to  conceal 
Montefiore.  She  knew  nothing  of  what  was  passing 
in  the  salon ;  the  double  portieres  of  thick  tapestry 
deadened  all  sounds. 

"  Madame,  I  lied  to  you  in  saying  I  could  not  find  the 
key.  Here  it  is,"  added  Perez,  taking  it  from  a  side- 
board. "But  it  is  useless.  Juana's  key  is  in  the 
lock;  her  door  is  barricaded.  We  have  been  deceived, 
my  wife ! "  he  added,  turning  to  Dona  Lagounia. 
"  There  is  a  man  in  Juana's  room." 


Juana.  37 

"  Impossible !  By  my  eternal  salvation  I  say  it  is 
impossible  !  "  said  his  wife. 

"Do  not  swear,  Dona  Lagounia.  Our  honor  is 
dead,  and  this  woman  —  "  He  pointed  to  the  Marana, 
who  had  risen  and  was  standing  motionless,  blasted  by 
his  words,  "this  woman  has  the  right  to  despise  us. 
She  saved  our  life,  our  fortune,  and  our  honor,  and  we 
have  saved  nothing  for  her  but  her  money  —  Juana  !  " 
he  cried  again,  "  open,  or  I  will  burst  in  your  door." 

His  voice,  rising  in  violence,  echoed  through  the 
garrets  in  the  roof.  But  he  was  cold  and  calm.  The 
life  of  Montefiore  was  in  his  hands  ;  he  would  wash 
away  his  remorse  in  the  blood  of  that  Italian. 

"  Out,  out,  out !  out,  all  of  you  !  "  cried  the  Marana, 
springing  like  a  tigress  on  the  dagger,  which  she 
wrenched  from  the  hand  of  the  astonished  Perez. 
"Out,  Perez,"  she  continued  more  calmly,  "out,  you 
and  your  wife  and  servants !  There  will  be  murder 
here.  You  might  be  shot  by  the  French.  Have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  this ;  it  is  my  affair,  mine  only.  Be- 
tween my  daughter  and  me  there  is  none  but  God.  As 
for  the  man,  he  belongs  to  me.  The  whole  earth 
could  not  tear  him  from  my  grasp.  Go,  go !  I  for- 
give you.  1  see  plainly  that  the  girl  is  a  Marana. 
You,  your  religion,  your  virtue  were  too  weak  to  fight 
against  my  blood." 

She  gave  a  dreadful  sigh,  turning  her  dry  eyes  on 
them.  She  had  lost  all,  but  she  knew  how  to  suffer,  — 
a  true  courtesan. 

The  door  opened.  The  Marana  forgot  all  else,  and 
Perez,  making  a  sign  to  his  wife,  remained  at  his  post. 
With  his  old  invincible  Spanish  honor  he  was  deter- 


38  Juana. 

mined  to  share  the  vengeance  of  the  betrayed  mother. 
Juana,  all  in  white,  and  softly  lighted  by  the  wax  can- 
dles, was  standing  calmly  in  the  centre  of  her  chamber. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me?  "  she  said. 

The  Marana  could  not  repress  a  passing  shudder. 

"  Perez,"  she  asked,  "  has  this  room  another  issue?  " 

Perez  made  a  negative  gesture ;  confiding  in  that 
gesture,  the  mother  entered  the  room. 

"  Juana,"  she  said,  "  I  am  your  mother,  your  judge  ; 
you  have  placed  yourself  in  the  only  situation  in  which 
I  could  reveal  myself  to  you.  You  have  come  down 
to  me,  you,  whom  I  thought  in  heaven.  Ah !  you 
have  fallen  low  indeed.  You  have  a  lover  in  this 
room." 

"  Madame,  there  is  and  there  can  be  no  one  but  my 
husband,"  answered  the  girl.     "I  am  the  Marquise  de 

Monte  fiore." 

"  Then  there  are  two,"  said  Perez,  in  a  grave  voice. 
"  He  told  me  he  was  married." 

"  Montefiore,  my  love!"  cried  the  girl,  tearing 
aside  the  curtains  and  revealing  the  officer.  "  Come  ! 
they  are  slandering  you." 

The  Italian  appeared,  pale  and  speechless ;  he  saw 
the  dagger  in  the  Marana's  hand,  and  he  knew  her 
well.  With  one  bound  he  sprang  from  the  room,  crying 
out  in  a  thundering  voice,  — 

"Help!  help!  they  are  murdering  a  Frenchman. 
Soldiers  of  the  6th  of  the  line,  rush  for  Captain  Diard ! 
Help,  help !  " 

Perez  had  gripped  the  man  and  was  trying  to  gag 
him  with  his  large  hand,  but  the  Marana  stopped  him, 
saying,  — 


Juana.  39 

"  Bind  him  fast,  but  let  him  shout.  Open  the  doors, 
leave  them  open,  and  go,  go,  as  I  told  you ;  go,  all  of 
you.  —  As  for  you,"  she  said,  addressing  Montefiore, 
"  shout,  call  for  help  if  you  choose  ;  by  the  time  your 
soldiers  get  here  this  blade  will  be  in  your  heart.  Are 
you  married?     Answer." 

Montefiore,  who  had  fallen  on  the  threshold  of  the 
door,  scarcely  a  step  from  Juana,  saw  nothing  but  the 
blade  of  the  dagger,  the  gleam  of  which  blinded  him. 

"  Has  he  deceived  me?  "  said  Juana,  slowly.  "  He 
told  me  he  was  free." 

"He  told  me  that  he  was  married,"  repeated  Perez, 
in  his  solemn  voice. 

11  Holy  Virgin  !  "  murmured  Doiia  Lagounia. 

"Answer,  soul  of  corruption,"  said  the  Marana,  in  a 
low  voice,  bending  to  the  ear  of  the  marquis. 

"  Your  daughter  —  "  began  Montefiore. 

"The  daughter  that  was  mine  is  dead  or  dying," 
interrupted  the  Marana.  "  I  have  no  daughter  ;  do  not 
utter  that  word.     Answer,  are  you  married?" 

"No,  madame,"  said  Montefiore,  at  last,  striving  to 
gain  time,  "  I  desire  to  marry  your  daughter." 

"My  noble  Montefiore!"  said  Juana,  drawing  a 
deep  breath. 

"  Then  why  did  you  attempt  to  fly  and  cry  for  help  ?  " 
asked  Perez. 

Terrible,  revealing  light! 

Juana  said  nothing,  but  she  wrung  her  hands  and 
went  to  her  arm-chair  and  sat  down. 

At  that  moment  a  tumult  rose  in  the  street  which 
was  plainly  heard  in  the  silence  of  the  room.  A  sol- 
dier of  the  6th,  hearing  Montefiore's  cry  for  help,  had 


40  Juana. 

summoned  Diard.  The  quartermaster,  who  was  fortu- 
nately in  his  bivouac,  came,  accompanied  by  friends. 

"Why  did  I  fly?"  said  Montefiore,  hearing  the 
voice  of  his  friend.  "  Because  I  told  you  the  truth  ;  I 
am  married  —  Diard  !  Diard  !  "  he  shouted  in  a  pierc- 
ing voice. 

But,  at  a  word  from  Perez,  the  apprentice  closed 
and  bolted  the  doors,  so  that  the  soldiers  were  delayed 
by  battering  them  in.  Before  they  could  enter,  the 
Marana  had  time  to  strike  her  dagger  into  the  guilty 
man;  but  anger  hindered  her  aim,  the  blade  slipped 
upon  the  Italian's  epaulet,  though  she  struck  her  blow 
with  such  force  that  he  fell  at  the  very  feet  of  Juana, 
who  took  no  notice  of  him.  The  Marana  sprang  upon 
him,  and  this  time,  resolved  not  to  miss  her  prey,  she 
caught  him  by  the  throat. 

"I  am  free  and  I  will  marry  her!  I  swear  it,  by 
God,  by  my  mother,  by  all  there  is  most  sacred  in  the 
world ;  I  am  a  bachelor ;  I  will  marry  her,  on  my 
honor !  " 

And  he  bit  the  arm  of  the  courtesan. 

"  Mother,"  said  Juana,  "  kill  him.  He  is  so  base 
that  I  will  not  have  him  for  my  husband,  were  he  ten 
times  as  beautiful." 

"Ah!  I  recognize  my  daughter!"  cried  the 
mother. 

"What  is  all  this?"  demanded  the  quartermaster, 
entering  the  room. 

*'  They  are  murdering  me,"  cried  Montefiore,  "  on 
account  of  this  girl ;  she  says  I  am  her  lover.  She 
inveigled  me  into  a  trap,  and  they  are  forcing  me  to 
marry  her  —  " 


Juana.  41 

"  And  you  reject  her?  "  cried  Diard,  struck  with  the 
splendid  beauty  which  contempt,  hatred,  and  indigna- 
tion had  given  to  the  girl,  already  so  beautiful. 
"  Then  you  are  hard  to  please.  If  she  wants  a  hus- 
band I  am  ready  to  marry  her.  Put  up  your  weapons ; 
there  is  no  trouble  here." 

The  Marana  pulled  the  Italian  to  the  side  of  her 
daughter's  bed  and  said  to  him,  in  a  low  voice,  — 

"If  I  spare  you,  give  thanks  for  the  rest  of  your 
life  ;  but,  remember  this,  if  your  tongue  ever  injures 
my  daughter  you  will  see  me  again.  Go  !  —  How 
much  dot  do  you  give  her?  "  she  continued,  goiug  up  to 
Perez. 

"  She  has  two  hundred  thousand  gold  piastres," 
replied  the  Spaniard. 

"  And  that  is  not  all,  monsieur,"  said  the  Marana, 
turning  to  Diard.  "  Who  are  you?  —  Go!"  she  re- 
peated  to  Monte  ft  ore. 

The  marquis,  hearing  this  statement  of  gold  piastres, 
came  forward  once  more,  saying,  — 

"  I  am  really  free  — " 

A  glance  from  Juana  silenced  him. 

"  You  are  really  free  to  go,"  she  said. 

And  he  went  immediately. 

"Alas!  monsieur,"  said  the  girl,  turning  to  Diard, 
"  I  thank  you  with  admiration.  But  my  husband  is  in 
heaven.     To-morrow  I  shall  enter  a  convent  —  " 

"  Juana,  my  Juana,  hush !  "  cried  the  mother,  clasp- 
ing her  in  her  arms.  Then  she  whispered  in  the  girl's 
ear.     "  You  must  have  another  husband." 

Juana  turned  pale.  She  freed  herself  from  her 
mother  and  sat  down  once  more  in  her  arm-chair. 


42  Juana. 

"Who  are  you,  monsieur?"  repeated  the  Marana, 
addressing  Diard. 

u  Madame,  I  am  at  present  only  the  quartermaster 
of  the  6th  of  the  line.  But  for  such  a  wife  I  have  the 
heart  to  make  myself  a  marshal  of  France.  My  name 
is  Pierre-Francois  Diard.  My  father  was  provost  of 
merchants.     I  am  not —  " 

"  But,  at  least,  you  are  an  honest  man,  are  you  not?" 
cried  the  Marana,  interrupting  him.  "  If  you  please 
the  Signorina  Juana  di  Mancini,  you  can  marry  her 
and  be  happy  together.  —  Juana,"  she  continued  in  a 
grave  tone,  "  in  becoming  the  wife  of  a  brave  and 
worthy  man  remember  that  you  will  also  be  a  mother. 
I  have  sworn  that  37ou  shall  kiss  your  children  without 
a  blush  upon  your  face  "(her  voice  faltered  slightly). 
" 1  have  sworn  that  you  shall  live  a  virtuous  life ; 
expect,  therefore,  many  troubles.  But,  whatever  hap- 
pens, continue  pure,  and  be  faithful  to  your  husband. 
Sacrifice  all  things  to  him,  for  he  will  be  the  father  of 
your  children  —  the  father  of  your  children  !  If  you 
take  a  lover,  I,  your  mother,  will  stand  between  you 
and  him.  Do  you  see  that  dagger?  It  is  in  your  dot," 
she  continued,  throwing  the  weapon  on  Juana's  bed. 
"I  leave  it  there  as  the  guarantee  of  your  honor  so 
long  as  my  eyes  are  open  and  my  arm  free.  Fare- 
well," she  said,  restraining  her  tears.  "  God  grant  that 
we  may  never  meet  again." 

At  that  idea,  her  tears  began  to  flow. 

"  Poor  child  !  "  she  added,  "  you  have  been  happier 
than  you  knew  in  this  dull  home.  —  Do  not  allow 
her  to  regret  it,"  she  said,  turning  to  Diard. 

The   foregoing  rapid  narrative  is  not  the  principal 


Juana.  43 

subject  of  this  Study,  for  the  understanding  of  which 
it  was  necessary  to  explain  how  it  happened  that  the 
quartermaster  Diard  married  Juana  di  Mancini,  that 
Montefiore  and  Diard  were  intimately  known  to  each 
other,  and  to  show  plainly  what  blood  and  what  pas- 
sions were  in  Madame  Diard. 


44  Juana. 


in. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  MADAME  DIARD. 

By  the  time  that  the  quartermaster  had  fulfilled  all 
the  long  and  dilatory  formalities  without  which  no 
French  soldier  can  be  married,  he  was  passionately  in 
love  with  Juana  di  Mancini,  and  Juana  had  had  time 
to  think  of  her  coming  destiny. 

An  awful  destiny !  Juana,  who  felt  neither  esteem 
nor  love  for  Diard,  was  bound  to  him  forever,  by  a 
rash  but  necessary  promise.  The  man  was  neither 
handsome  nor  well-made.  His  manners,  devoid  of  all 
distinction,  were  a  mixture  of  the  worst  army  tone,  the 
habits  of  his  province,  and  his  own  insufficient  educa- 
tion. How  could  she  love  Diard,  she,  a  young  girl  all 
grace  and  elegance,  born  with  an  invincible  instinct  for 
luxury  and  good  taste,  her  very  nature  tending  toward 
the  sphere  of  the  higher  social  classes?  As  for  esteem- 
ing him,  she  rejected  the  very  thought  precisely  be- 
cause he  had  married  her.  This  repulsion  was  natural. 
Woman  is  a  saintly  and  noble  creature,  but  almost 
always  misunderstood,  and  nearly  always  misjudged 
because  she  is  misunderstood.  If  Juana  had  loved 
Diard  she  would  have  esteemed  him.  Love  creates  in 
a  wife  a  new  woman ;  the  woman  of  the  day  before  no 
longer  exists  on  the  morrow.  Putting  on  the  nuptial 
robe  of  a  passion  in  which  life  itself  is  concerned,  the 


Juana.  45 

woman  wraps  herself  in  purity  and  whiteness.  Reborn 
into  virtue  and  chastity,  there  is  no  past  for  her  ;  she  is 
all  future,  and  should  forget  the  things  behind  her  to 
relearn  life.  In  this  sense  the  famous  words  which  a 
modern  poet  has  put  into  the  lips  of  Marion  Delorme 
is  infused  with  truth,  — 

"  And  Love  remade  me  virgin." 

That  line  seems  like  a  reminiscence  of  a  tragedy  of 
Corneille,  so  truly  does  it  recall  the  energetic  diction 
of  the  father  of  our  modern  theatre.  Yet  the  poet  was 
forced  to  sacrifice  it  to  the  essentially  vaudevillist 
spirit  of  the  pit. 

So  Juana  loveless  was  doomed  to  be  Juana  humili- 
ated, degraded,  hopeless.  She  could  not  honor  the  man 
who  took  her  thus.  She  felt,  in  all  the  conscientious 
purity  of  her  youth, that  distinction,  subtle  in  appearance 
but  sacredly  true,  legal  with  the  heart's  legality,  which 
women  apply  instinctively  to  all  their  feelings,  even 
the  least  reflective.  Juana  became  profoundly  sad  as 
she  saw  the  nature  and  the  extent  of  the  life  before 
her.  Often  she  turned  her  eyes,  brimming  with  tears 
proudly  repressed,  upon  Perez  and  Dofia  Lagounia, 
who  fully  comprehended,  both  of  them,  the  bitter 
thoughts  those  tears  contained.  But  they  were  silent : 
of  what  good  were  reproaches  now ;  why  look  for  con- 
solations ?  The  deeper  they  were,  the  more  they  enlarged 
the  wound. 

One  evening,  Juana,  stupid  with  grief,  heard  through 
the  open  door  of  her  little  room,  which  the  old  couple 
had  thought  shut,  a  pitying  moan  from  her  adopted 
mother. 


"  The  child  will  die  of  grief. 


11 


46  Juana. 

"Yes,"  said  Perez,  in  a  shaking  voice,  "but  what 
can  we  do  ?  I  cannot  now  boast  of  her  beauty  and  her 
chastity  to  Comte  d'Arcos,  to  whom  I  hoped  to  marry 
her. " 

"  But  a  single  fault  is  not  vice,"  said  the  old  woman, 
pitying  as  the  angels. 

"  Her  mother  gave  her  to  this  man,"  said  Perez. 

"Yes,  in  a  moment;  without  consulting  the  poor 
child !  "  cried  Dona  Lagounia. 

"  She  knew  what  she  was  doing." 

tk  But  oh  !  into  what  hands  our  pearl  is  going !  " 

"  Say  no  more,  or  I  shall  seek  a  quarrel  with  that 
Diard." 

"  And  that  would  only  lead  to  other  miseries." 

Hearing  these  dreadful  words  Juana  saw  the  happy 
future  she  had  lost  by  her  own  wrongdoing.  The  pure 
and  simple  years  of  her  quiet  life  would  have  been 
rewarded  by  a  brilliant  existence  such  as  she  had 
fondly  dreamed,  — dreams  which  had  caused  her  ruin. 
To  fall  from  the  height  of  Greatness  to  Monsieur 
Diard !  She  wept.  At  times  she  went  nearly  mad. 
She  floated  for  a  while  between  vice  and  religion.  Vice 
was  a  speed}7  solution,  religion  a  lifetime  of  suffering. 
The  meditation  was  stormy  and  solemn.  The  next 
day  was  the  fatal  day,  the  day  for  the  marriage.  But 
Juana  could  still  remain  free.  Free,  she  knew  how  far 
her  misery  would  go ;  married,  she  was  ignorant  of 
where  it  went  or  what  it  might  bring  her. 

Religion  triumphed.  Doila  Lagounia  stayed  beside 
her  child  and  prayed  and  watched  as  she  would  have 
prayed  and  watched  beside  the  dyiug. 

"  God  wills  it,"  she  said  to  Juana. 


Juana.  47 

Nature  gives  to  woman  alternately  a  strength  which 
enables  her  to  suffer  and  a  weakness  which  leads  her 
to  resignation.  Juana  resigned  herself;  and  without 
restriction.  She  determined  to  obey  her  mother's 
prayer,  and  cross  the  desert  of  life  to  reach  God's 
heaven,  knowing  well  that  no  flowers  grew  for  her 
along  the  way  of  that  painful  journey. 

She  married  Diard.  As  for  the  quartermaster, 
though  he  had  no  grace  in  Juana's  eyes,  we  may  well 
absolve  him.  He  loved  her  distractedly.  The  Marana, 
so  keen  to  know  the  signs  of  love,  had  recognized  in 
that  man  the  accents  of  passion  and  the  brusque  nature, 
the  generous  impulses,  that  are  common  to  Southerners. 
In  the  paroxysm  of  her  anger  and  her  distress  she  had 
seen  nothing  but  Diard's  best  qualities,  and  she  thought 
such  qualities  enough  for  her  daughter's  happiness. 

The  first  days  of  this  marriage  were  apparently, 
happy ;  or,  to  express  one  of  those  latent  facts,  the 
miseries  of  which  are  buried  by  women  in  the  depths 
of  their  souls,  Juana  would  not  cast  down  her  hus- 
band's joy,  —  a  double  r61e,  dreadful  to  play,  but  to 
which,  sooner  or  later,  all  women  unhappily  married 
come.  This  is  a  history  impossible  to  recount  in  its 
full  truth.  Juana,  struggling  hourly  against  her  na- 
ture, a  nature  both  Spanish  and  Italian,  having  dried 
up  the  source  of  her  tears  by  dint  of  weeping,  was  a 
human  type,  destined  to  represent  woman's  misery  in 
its  utmost  expression,  namely,  sorrow  undyingly  active ; 
the  description  of  which  would  need  such  minute  ob- 
servations that  to  persons  eager  for  dramatic  emotions 
they  would  seem  insipid.  This  analysis,  in  which 
every  wife  would  find  some  one  of  her  own  sufferings, 


48  Juana. 

would  require  a  volume  to  express  them  all ;  a  fruitless, 
hopeless  volume  by  its  very  nature,  the  merit  of  which 
would  consist  in  faintest  tints  and  delicate  shadings 
which  critics  would  declare  to  be  effeminate  and  diffuse. 
Besides,  what  man  could  rightly  approach,  unless  he 
bore  another  heart  within  his  heart,  those  solemn  and 
touching  elegies  which  certain  women  carry  with  them 
to  their  tomb ;  melancholies,  misunderstood  even  by 
those  who  cause  them ;  sighs  unheeded,  devotions  un- 
rewarded, —  on  earth  at  least,  —  splendid  silences 
misconstrued  ;  vengeances  withheld,  disdained  ;  gen- 
erosities perpetually  bestowed  and  wasted  ;  pleasures 
longed  for  and  denied ;  angelic  charities  secretly  ac- 
complished, —  in  short,  all  the  religions  of  womanhood 
and  its  inextinguishable  love. 

Juana  knew  that  life :  fate  spared  her  nought.  She 
was  wholly  a  wife,  but  a  sorrowful  and  suffering  wife ; 
a  wife  incessantly  wounded,  yet  forgiving  always  ;  a  wife 
pure  as  a  flawless  diamond,  —  she  wrho  had  the  beauty 
and  the  glow  of  the  diamond,  and  in  that  beauty,  that 
glow,  a  vengeance  in  her  hand  ;  for  she  was  certainly  not 
a  woman  to  fear  the  dagger  added  to  her  dot. 

At  first,  inspired  by  a  real  love,  by  one  of  those 
passions  which  for  the  time  being  change  even  odious 
characters  and  bring  to  light  all  that  may  be  noble  in  a 
soul,  Diard  behaved  like  a  man  of  honor.  He  forced 
Montefiore  to  leave  the  regiment  and  even  the  army 
corps,  so  that  his  wife  might  never  meet  him  during 
the  time  they  remained  in  Spain.  Next,  he  petitioned 
for  his  own  removal,  and  succeeded  in  entering  the 
Imperial  Guard.  lie  desired  at  any  price  to  obtain  a 
title,  honors,  and  consideration  in  keeping  with  his  pres- 


Juana.  49 

ent  wealth.  With  this  idea  in  his  mind,  he  behaved 
courageously  in  one  of  the  most  bloody  battles  in 
Germany,  but,  unfortunately,  he  was  too  severely 
wounded  to  remain  in  the  service.  Threatened  with 
the  loss  of  a  leg,  he  was  forced  to  retire  on  a  pension, 
without  the  title  of  baron,  without  those  rewards  he 
hoped  to  win,  and  would  have  won  had  he  not  been 
Diard. 

This  event,  this  wound,  and  his  thwarted  hopes 
contributed  to  change  his  character.  His  Provencal 
energy,  roused  for  a  time,  sank  down.  At  first  he  was 
sustained  by  his  wife,  in  whom  his  efforts,  his  courage, 
his  ambition  had  induced  some  belief  in  his  nature,  and 
who  showed  herself,  what  women  are,  tender  and  con- 
soling in  the  troubles  of  life.  Inspired  by  a  few  words 
from  Juana,  the  retired  soldier  came  to  Paris,  resolved 
to  win  in  an  administrative  career  a  position  to  com- 
mand respect,  bury  in  oblivion  the  quartermaster  of 
the  6th  of  the  line,  and  secure  for  Madame  Diard  a 
noble  title.  His  passion  for  that  seductive  creature 
enabled  him  to  divine  her  most  secret  wishes.  Juana 
expressed  nothing,  but  he  understood  her.  He  was  not 
loved  as  a  lover  dreams  of  being  loved ;  he  knew  this, 
and  he  strove  to  make  himself  respected,  loved,  and 
cherished.  He  foresaw  a  coming  happiness,  poor  man, 
in  the  patience  and  gentleness  shown  on  all  occasions 
by  his  wife  ;  but  that  patience,  that  gentleness,  were  only 
the  outward  signs  of  the  resignation  which  had  made  her 
his  wife.  Resignation,  religion,  were  they  love?  Often 
Diard  wished  for  refusal  where  he  met  with  chaste 
obedience ;  often  he  would  have  given  his  eternal  life 
that  Juana  might  have  wept  upon  his  bosom  and  not 

4 


50  Juana. 

disguised  her  secret  thoughts  behind  a  smiling  face 
which  lied  to  him  nobly.  Many  young  men  —  for  after 
a  certain  age  men  no  louger  struggle  —  persist  in  the 
effort  to  triumph  over  an  evil  fate,  the  thunder  of  which 
they  hear,  from  time  to  time,  on  the  horizon  of  their 
lives  ;  and  when  at  last  they  succumb  and  roll  down 
the  precipice  of  evil,  we  ought  to  do  them  justice  and 
acknowledge  these  inward  struggles. 

Like  many  men  Diard  tried  all  things,  and  all  things 
were  hostile  to  him.  His  wealth  enabled  him  to  sur- 
round his  wife  with  the  enjoyments  of  Parisian  luxury. 
She  lived  in  a  fine  house,  with  noble  rooms,  where  she 
maintained  a  salon,  in  which  abounded  artists  (by 
nature  no  judges  of  men),  men  of  pleasure  ready  to 
amuse  themselves  anywhere,  a  few  politicians  who 
swelled  the  numbers,  and  certain  men  of  fashion,  all 
of  whom  admired  Juana.  Those  who  put  themselves 
before  the  eyes  of  the  public  in  Paris  must  either  con- 
quer Paris  or  be  subject  to  it.  Diard's  character  was 
not  sufficiently  strong,  compact,  or  persistent  to  com- 
mand society  at  that  epoch,  because  it  was  an  epoch 
when  all  men  were  endeavoring  to  rise.  Social  classi- 
fications ready-made  are  perhaps  a  great  boon  for  even 
the  people.  Napoleon  has  confided  to  us  the  pains  he 
took  to  inspire  respect  in  his  court,  where  most  of  the 
courtiers  had  been  his  equals.  But  Napoleon  was  Cor- 
sican,  and  Diard  Provencal.  Given  equal  genius,  an 
islander  will  always  be  more  compact  and  rounded 
than  the  man  of  terra  firma  in  the  same  latitude ;  the 
arm  of  the  sea  which  separates  Corsica  from  Provence 
is,  in  spite  of  human  science,  an  ocean  which  has  made 
two  nations. 


Juana.  51 

Diard's  mongrel  position,  which  he  himself  made 
still  more  questionable,  brought  him  great  troubles. 
Perhaps  there  is  useful  instruction  to  be  derived  from 
the  almost  imperceptible  connection  of  acts  which  led 
to  the  finale  of  this  history. 

In  the  first  place,  the  sneerers  of  Paris  did  not  see 
without  malicious  smiles  and  words  the  pictures  with 
which  the  former  quartermaster  adorned  his  handsome 
mansion.  Works  of  art  purchased  the  night  before 
were  said  to  be  spoils  from  Spain ;  and  this  accusation 
was  the  revenge  of  those  who  were  jealous  of  his 
present  fortune.  Juana  comprehended  this  reproach, 
and  by  her  advice  Diard  sent  back  to  Tarragona  all 
the  pictures  he  had  brought  from  there.  But  the  pub- 
lic, determined  to  see  things  in  the  worst  light,  only 
said,  "  That  Diard  is  shrewd  ;  he  has  sold  his  pictures." 
Worthy  people  continued  to  think  that  those  which 
remained  in  the  Diard  salons  were  not  honorably  ac- 
quired. Some  jealous  women  asked  how  it  was  that 
a  Diard  ( !)  had  been  able  to  marry  so  rich  and  beauti- 
ful a  young  girl.  Hence  comments  and  satires  with- 
out end,  such  as  Paris  contributes.  And  yet,  it  must 
be  said,  that  Juana  met  on  all  sides  the  respect  in- 
spired by  her  pure  and  religious  life,  which  triumphed 
over  everything,  even  Parisian  calumny ;  but  this  re- 
spect stopped  short  with  her,  her  husband  received 
none  of  it.  Juana's  feminine  perception  and  her  keen 
eye  hovering  over  her  salons,  brought  her  nothing  but 
pain. 

This  lack  of  esteem  was  perfectly  natural.  Diard's 
comrades,  in  spite  of  the  virtues  which  our  imagina- 
tions  attribute  to  soldiers,  never  forgave  the   former 


52  Juana. 

quartermaster  of  the  6th  of  the  line  for  becoming  sud- 
denly so  rich  and  for  attempting  to  cut  a  figure  in 
Paris.  Now  in  Paris,  from  the  last  house  in  the  fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain  to  the  last  house  in  the  rue  Saint- 
Lazare,  between  the  heights  of  the  Luxembourg  and 
the  heights  of  Montmartre,  all  that  clothes  itself  and 
gabbles,  clothes  itself  to  go  out  and  goes  out  to  gab- 
ble. All  that  world  of  great  and  small  pretensions, 
that  world  of  insolence  and  humble  desires,  of  envy 
and  cringing,  all  that  is  gilded  or  tarnished,  young 
or  old,  noble  of  yesterday  or  noble  from  the  fourth 
century,  all  that  sneers  at  a  parvenu,  all  that  fears  to 
commit  itself,  all  that  wants  to  demolish  power  and 
worships  power  if  it  resists,  — all  those  ears  hear,  all 
those  tongues  say,  all  those  minds  know,  in  a  single 
evening,  where  the  new-comer  who  aspires  to  honor 
among  them  was  born  and  brought  up,  and  what  that 
interloper  has  done,  or  has  not  done,  in  the  course  of 
his  life.  There  may  be  no  court  of  assizes  for  the 
upper  classes  of  society ;  but  at  any  rate  they  have  the 
most  cruel  of  public  prosecutors,  an  intangible  moral 
being,  both  judge  and  executioner,  who  accuses  and 
brands.  Do  not  hope  to  hide  anything  from  him  ;  tell 
him  all  yourself ;  he  wants  to  know  all  and  he  will 
know  all.  Do  not  ask  what  mysterious  telegraph  it 
was  which  conveyed  to  him  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
at  any  hour,  in  any  place,  that  story,  that  bit  of  news, 
that  scandal ;  do  not  ask  what  prompts  him.  That 
telegraph  is  a  social  mystery ;  no  observer  can  report 
its  effects.  Of  many  extraordinary  instances  thereof, 
one  may  suffice :  The  assassination  of  the  Due  de 
Berry,  which  occurred  at  the  Opera-house,  was  related 


Juana.  53 

within  ten  minutes  in  the  lie-Saint-Louis.  Thus  the 
opinion  of  the  6th  of  the  line  as  to  its  quartermaster 
filtered  through  society  the  night  on  which  he  gave  his 
first  ball. 

Diard  was  therefore  debarred  from  succeeding  in 
society.  Henceforth  his  wife  alone  had  the  power  to 
make  anything  of  him.  Miracle  of  our  strange  civili- 
zation !  In  Paris,  if  a  man  is  incapable  of  being  any- 
thing himself,  his  wife,  when  she  is  young  and  clever, 
may  give  him  other  chances  for  elevation.  We  some- 
times meet  with  invalid  women,  feeble  beings  appar- 
entty,  who,  without  rising  from  sofas  or  leaving  their 
chambers,  have  ruled  society,  moved  a  thousand 
springs,  and  placed  their  husbands  where  their  ambition 
or  their  vanity  prompted.  But  Juana,  whose  child- 
hood was  passed  in  her  retreat  in  Tarragona,  knew 
nothing  of  the  vices,  the  meannesses,  or  the  resources 
of  Parisian  society  ;  she  looked  at  that  society  with  the 
curiosity  of  a  girl,  but  she  learned  from  it  only  that 
which  her  sorrow  and  her  wounded  pride  revealed  to 
her. 

Juana  had  the  tact  of  a  virgin  heart  which  receives 
impressions  in  advance  of  the  event,  after  the  manner 
of  what  are  called  "  sensitives."  The  solitary  young 
girl,  so  suddenly  become  a  woman  and  a  wife,  saw 
plainly  that  were  she  to  attempt  to  compel  society  to 
respect  her  husband,  it  must  be  after  the  manner  of 
Spanish  beggars,  carbine  in  hand.  Besides,  the  multi- 
plicity of  the  precautions  she  would  have  to  take, 
would  they  meet  the  necessity  ?  Suddenly  she  divined 
society  as,  once  before,  she  had  divined  life,  and  she 
saw  nothing  around  her  but  the  immense  extent  of  an 


54  Juana. 

irreparable  disaster.  She  had,  moreover,  the  additional 
grief  of  tardily  recognizing  her  husband's  peculiar 
form  of  incapacity  ;  he  was  a  man  unfitted  for  any 
purpose  that  required  continuity  of  ideas.  He  could 
not  understand  a  consistent  part,  such  as  he  ought  to 
play  in  the  world  ;  he  perceived  it  neither  as  a  whole 
nor  in  its  gradations,  and  its  gradations  were  every- 
thing. He  was  in  one  of  those  positions  where  shrewd- 
ness and  tact  might  have  taken  the  place  of  strength  ; 
when  shrewdness  and  tact  succeed,  they  are,  perhaps, 
the  highest  form  of  strength. 

Now  Diard,  far  from  arresting  the  spot  of  oil  on  his 
garments  left  by  his  antecedents,  did  his  best  to  spread 
it.  Incapable  of  studying  the  phase  of  the  empire  in 
the  midst  of  which  he  came  to  live  in  Paris,  he  wanted 
to  be  made  prefect.  At  that  time  every  one  believed 
in  the  genius  of  Napoleon  ;  his  favor  enhanced  the 
value  of  all  offices.  Prefectures,  those  miniature  em- 
pires, could  only  be  filled  by  men  of  great  names,  or 
chamberlains  of  H.  M.  the  emperor  and  king.  Already 
the  prefects  were  a  species  of  vizier.  The  myrmidons  of 
the  great  man  scoffed  at  Diard's  pretensions  to  a  pre- 
fecture, whereupon  he  lowered  his  demand  to  a  sub- 
prefecture.  There  was,  of  course,  a  ridiculous  dis- 
crepancy between  this  latter  demand  and  the  magnitude 
of  his  fortune.  To  frequent  the  imperial  salons  and 
live  with  insolent  luxury,  and  then  to  abandon  that 
millionnaire  life  and  bury  himself  as  sub-prefect  at 
Issoudun  or  Savenay  was  certainly  holding  himself 
below  his  position.  Juana,  too  late  aware  of  our  laws 
and  habits  and  administrative  customs,  did  not  en- 
lighten her  husband  soon  enough.     Diard,  desperate, 


Juana.  55 

petitioned  successively  all  the  ministerial  powers ;  re- 
pulsed everywhere,  he  found  nothing  open  to  him ;  and 
society  then  judged  him  as  the  government  judged  him 
and  as  he  judged  himself.  Diard,  grievously  wounded, 
on  the  battlefield,  was  nevertheless  not  decorated ;  the 
quartermaster,  rich  as  he  was,  was  allowed  no  place  in 
public  life,  and  society  logically  refused  him  that  to 
which  he  pretended  in  its  midst. 

Finally,  to  cap  all,  the  luckless  man  felt  in  his  own 
home  the  superiority  of  his  wife.  Though  she  used 
great  tact — we  might  say  velvet  softness  if  the  term 
were  admissible  —  to  disguise  from  her  husband  this 
supremacy,  which  surprised  and  humiliated  herself, 
Diard  ended  by  being  affected  by  it. 

At  a  game  of  life  like  this  men  are  either  unmanned, 
or  they  grow  the  stronger,  or  they  give  themselves  to 
evil.  The  courage  or  the  ardor  of  this  man  lessened 
under  the  reiterated  blows  which  his  own  faults  dealt 
to  his  self -appreciation,  and  fault  after  fault  he  com- 
mitted. In  the  first  place  he  had  to  struggle  against 
his  own  habits  and  character.  A  passionate  Provencal, 
frank  in  his  vices  as  in  his  virtues,  this  man  whose 
fibres  vibrated  like  the  strings  of  a  harp,  was  all  heart 
to  his  former  friends.  He  succored  the  shabby  and 
spattered  man  as  readily  as  the  needy  of  rank ;  in  short, 
he  accepted  everybody,  and  gave  his  hand  in  his  gilded 
salons  to  many  a  poor  devil.  Observing  this  on  one 
occasion,  a  general  of  the  empire,  a  variety  of  the 
human  species  of  which  no  type  will  presently  remain, 
refused  his  hand  to  Diard,  and  called  him,  insolently, 
"  my  good  fellow  "  when  he  met  him.  The  few  persons 
of  really  good  society  whom  Diard  knew,  treated  him 


56  Juana. 

with  that  elegant,  polished  contempt  against  which  a 
new-made  man  has  seldom  any  weapons.  The  manners, 
the  semi-Italian  gesticulations,  the  speech  of  Diard,  his 
style  of  dress,  —  all  contributed  to  repulse  the  respect 
which  careful  observation  of  matters  of  good  taste  and 
dignity  might  otherwise  obtain  for  vulgar  persons  ;  the 
yoke  of  such  conventionalities  can  only  be  cast  off  by 
great  and  unmistakable  powers.     So  goes  the  world. 

These  details  but  faintly  picture  the  many  tortures 
to  which  Juana  was  subjected  ;  they  came  upon  her 
one  by  one ;  each  social  nature  pricked  her  with  its  own 
particular  pin ;  and  to  a  soul  which  preferred  the  thrust 
of  a  dagger,  there  could  be  no  worse  suffering  than 
this  struggle  in  which  Diard  received  insults  he  did  not 
feel  and  Juana  felt  those  she  did  not  receive.  A  mo- 
ment came,  an  awful  moment,  when  she  gained  a  clear 
and  lucid  perception  of  society,  and  felt  in  one  instant 
all  the  sorrows  which  were  gathering  themselves  to- 
gether to  fall  upon  her  head.  She  judged  her  hus- 
band incapable  of  rising  to  the  honored  ranks  of  the 
social  order,  and  she  felt  that  he  would  one  day  descend 
where  his  instincts  led  him.  Henceforth  Juana  felt 
pity  for  him. 

The  future  was  very  gloomy  for  this  young  woman. 
She  lived  in  constant  apprehension  of  some  disaster. 
This  presentiment  was  in  her  soul  as  a  contagion  is  in 
the  air,  but  she  had  strength  of  mind  and  will  to  dis- 
guise her  anguish  beneath  a  smile.  Juana  had  ceased 
to  think  of  herself.  She  used  her  influence  to  make 
Diard  resign  his  various  pretensions  and  to  show  him, 
as  a  haven,  the  peaceful  and  consoling  life  of  home. 
Evils  came  from  society  —  why  not  banish  it?     In  his 


Juana.  57 

home  Diard  found  peace  and  respect ;  he  reigned  there. 
She  felt  herself  strong  to  accept  the  trying  task  of 
making  him  happy, —  he,  a  man  dissatisfied  with  himself. 
Her  energy  increased  with  the  difficulties  of  life  ;  she 
had  all  the  secret  heroism  necessary  to  her  position ; 
religion  inspired  her  with  those  desires  which  support 
the  angel  appointed  to  protect  a  Christian  soul  —  occult 
poesy,  allegorical  image  of  our  two  natures  ! 

Diard  abandoned  his  projects,  closed  his  house  to  the 
world,  and  lived  in  his  home.  But  here  he  found  another 
reef.  The  poor  soldier  had  one  of  those  eccentric  souls 
which  need  perpetual  motion.  Diard  was  one  of  the 
men  who  are  instinctively  compelled  to  start  again  the 
moment  that  they  arrive,  and  whose  vital  object  seems 
to  be  to  come  and  go  incessantly,  like  the  wheels 
mentioned  in  Holy  Writ.  Perhaps  he  felt  the  need  of 
flying  from  himself.  Without  wearying  of  Juana, 
without  blaming  Juana,  his  passion  for  her,  rendered 
tranquil  by  time,  allowed  his  natural  character  to  assert 
itself.  Henceforth  his  days  of  gloom  were  more  fre- 
quent, and  he  often  gave  way  to  southern  excitement. 
The  more  virtuous  a  woman  is  and  the  more  irreproach- 
able, the  more  a  man  likes  to  find  fault  with  her,  if 
only  to  assert  by  that  act  his  legal  superiority.  But  if 
by  chance  she  seems  really  imposing  to  him,  he  feels 
the  need  of  foisting  faults  upon  her.  After  that,  be- 
tween man  and  wrife,  trifles  increase  and  grow  till  they 
swell  to  Alps. 

But  Juana,  patient  and  without  pride,  gentle  and  with- 
out that  bitterness  which  women  know  so  well  how  to 
cast  into  their  submission,  left  Diard  no  chance  for 
planned  ill-humor.     Besides,  she  was  one  of  those  noble 


58  Juana. 

creatures  to  whom  it  is  impossible  to  speak  disrespect- 
fully ;  her  glance,  in  which  her  life,  saintly  and  pure, 
shone  out,  had  the  weight  of  a  fascination.  Diard, 
embarrassed  at  first,  then  annoyed,  ended  by  feeling 
that  such  high  virtue  was  a  yoke  upon  him.  The  good- 
ness of  his  wife  gave  him  no  violent  emotions,  and 
violent  emotions  were  what  he  wanted.  What  myriads 
of  scenes  are  played  in  the  depths  of  souls,  beneath  the 
cold  exterior  of  lives  that  are,  apparently,  commonplace  ! 
Among  these  dramas,  lasting  each  but  a  short  time, 
though  they  influence  life  so  powerfully  and  are  fre- 
quently the  forerunners  of  the  great  misfortune  doomed 
to  fall  on  so  many  marriages,  it  is  difficult  to  choose  an 
example.  There  was  a  scene,  however,  which  particu- 
larly marked  the  moment  when  in  the  life  of  this  hus- 
band and  wife  estrangement  began.  Perhaps  it  may 
also  serve  to  explain  the  finale  of  this  narrative. 

Juana  had  two  children,  happily  for  her,  two  sons. 
The  first  was  born  seven  months  after  her  marriage. 
He  was  called  Juan,  and  he  strongly  resembled  his 
mother.  The  second  was  born  about  two  years  after 
her  arrival  in  Paris.  The  latter  resembled  both  Diard 
and  Juana,  but  more  particularly  Diard.  His  name 
was  Francisque.  For  the  last  five  years  Francisque 
had  been  the  object  of  Juana's  most  tender  and  watch- 
ful care.  The  mother  was  constantly  occupied  with 
that  child ;  to  him  her  prettiest  caresses ;  to  him  the 
toys ;  but  to  him,  especially,  the  penetrating  mother- 
looks.  Juana  had  watched  him  from  his  cradle ;  she 
had  studied  his  cries,  his  motions ;  she  endeavored  to 
discern  his  nature  that  she  might  educate  him  wisely. 
It  seemed  at  times  as  if  she  had  but  that  one  child. 


Juana.  59 

Diard,  seeing  that  the  eldest,  Juan,  was  in  a  way  neg- 
lected, took  him  under  his  own  protection  ;  and  without 
inquiring  even  of  himself  whether  the  boy  was  the  fruit 
of  that  ephemeral  love  to  which  he  owed  his  wife,  he 
made  him  his  Benjamin. 

Of  all  the  sentiments  transmitted  to  her  through  the 
blood  of  her  grandmothers  which  consumed  her, 
Madame  Diard  accepted  one  alone,  —  maternal  love. 
But  she  loved  her  children  doubly :  first  with  the  noble 
violence  of  which  her  mother  the  Marana  had  given 
her  the  example ;  secondly,  with  grace  and  purity,  in 
the  spirit  of  those  social  virtues  the  practice  of  which 
was  the  glory  of  her  life  and  her  inward  recompense. 
The  secret  thought,  the  conscience  of  her  motherhood, 
which  gave  to  the  Marana's  life  its  stamp  of  untaught 
poesy,  was  to  Juana  an  acknowledged  life,  an  open 
consolation  at  all  hours.  Her  mother  had  been  virtu- 
ous as  other  women  are  criminal,  —  in  secret ;  she  had 
stolen  a  fancied  happiness,  she  had  never  really  tasted 
it.  But  Juana,  unhappy  in  her  virtue  as  her  mother 
was  unhappy  in  her  vice,  could  enjoy  at  all  moments 
the  ineffable  delights  which  her  mother  had  so  craved 
and  could  not  have.  To  her,  as  to  her  mother, 
maternity  comprised  all  earthly  sentiments.  Each, 
from  differing  causes,  had  no  other  comfort  in  their 
misery.  Juana's  maternal  love  may  have  been  the 
strongest  because,  deprived  of  all  other  affections,  she 
put  the  joys  she  lacked  into  the  one  joy  of  her  chil- 
dren ;  and  there  are  noble  passions  that  resemble  vice  : 
the  more  they  are  satisfied  the  more  they  increase. 
Mothers  and  gamblers  are  alike  insatiable. 

When  Juana  saw  the  generous  pardon  laid  silently 


60  Juana. 

on  the  head  of  Juan  by  Diard's  fatherly  affection,  she 
was  much  moved,  and  from  the  day  when  the  husband 
and  wife  changed  parts  she  felt  for  him  the  true  and 
deep  interest  she  had  hitherto  shown  to  him  as  a  mat- 
ter of  duty  only.  If  that  man  had  been  more  consist- 
ent in  his  life ;  if  he  had  not  destroyed  by  fitful 
inconstancy  and  restlessness  the  forces  of  a  true 
though  excitable  sensibility,  Juana  would  doubtless 
have  loved  him  in  the  end.  Unfortunately,  he  was  a 
type  of  those  southern  natures  which  are  keen  in  per- 
ceptions they  cannot  follow  out;  capable  of  great 
things  over-night,  and  incapable  the  next  morning; 
often  the  victim  of  their  own  virtues,  and  often  lucky 
through  their  worst  passions ;  admirable  men  in  some 
respects,  when  their  good  qualities  are  kept  to  steady 
energy  by  some  outward  bond.  For  two  years  after 
his  retreat  from  active  life  Diard  was  held  captive  in 
his  home  by  the  softest  chains.  He  lived,  almost  in 
spite  of  himself,  under  the  influence  of  his  wife,  who 
made  herself  gay  and  amusing  to  cheer  him,  who  used 
the  resources  of  feminine  genius  to  attract  and  seduce 
him  to  a  love  of  virtue,  but  whose  ability  and  cleverness 
did  not  go  so  far  as  to  simulate  love. 

At  this  time  all  Paris  was  talking  of  the  affair  of  a 
captain  in  the  army  who  in  a  paroxysm  of  libertine 
jealousy  had  killed  a  woman.  Diard,  on  coming  home 
to  dinner,  told  his  wife  that  the  officer  was  dead.  He 
had  killed  himself  to  avoid  the  dishonor  of  a  trial  and 
the  shame  of  death  upon  the  scaffold.  Juana  did  not 
see  at  first  the  logic  of  such  conduct,  and  her  husband 
was  obliged  to  explain  to  her  the  fine  jurisprudence  of 
French  law,  which  does  not  prosecute  the  dead. 


Juana.  61 

"  But,  papa,  did  n't  you  tell  us  the  other  day  that  the 
king  could  pardon?  "  asked  Francisque. 

"  The  king  can  give  nothing  but  life,"  said  Juan, 
half  scornfully. 

Diard  and  Juana,  the  spectators  of  this  little  scene, 
were  differently  affected  by  it.  The  glance,  moist  with 
joy,  which  his  wife  cast  upon  her  eldest  child  was  a 
fatal  revelation  to  the  husband  of  the  secrets  of  a 
heart  hitherto  impenetrable.  That  eldest  child  was  all 
Juana ;  Juana  comprehended  him  ;  she  was  sure  of  his 
heart,  his  future  ;  she  adored  him,  but  her  ardent  love 
was  a  secret  between  herself,  her  child,  and  God. 
Juan  instinctively  enjoyed  the  seeming  indifference  of 
his  mother  in  presence  of  his  father  and  brother,  for 
she  pressed  him  to  her  heart  when  alone.  Francisque 
was  Diard,  and  Juana's  incessant  care  and  watchful- 
ness betrayed  her  desire  to  correct  in  the  son  the 
vices  of  the  father  and  to  encourage  his  better  qualities. 
Juana,  unaware  that  her  glance  had  said  too  much 
and  that  her  husband  had  rightly  interpreted  it,  took 
Francisque  on  her  lap  and  gave  him,  in  a  gentle  voice 
still  trembling  with  the  pleasure  that  Juan's  answer 
had  brought  her,  a  lesson  upon  honor,  simplified  to  his 
childish  intelligence. 

"That  boy's  character  requires  care,"  said  Diard. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  simply. 

"  How  about  Juan?  " 

Madame  Diard,  struck  by  the  tone  in  which  the 
words  were  uttered,  looked  at  her  husband. 

"  Juan  was  born  perfect,"  he  added. 

Then  he  sat  down  gloomily,  and  reflected.  Pres- 
ently, as  his  wife  continued  silent,  he  added  :  — 


62  Juana. 

"  You  love  one  of  your  children  better  than  the 
other." 

"  You  know  that,"  she  replied. 

"No,"  said  Diard,  "I  did  not  know  until  now 
which  of  them  you  preferred." 

"But  neither  of  them  have  ever  given  me  a  mo- 
ment's uneasiness,"  she  answered  quickly. 

"  But  one  of  them  gives  you  greater  joys,"  he  said, 
more  quickly  still. 

"  I  never  counted  them,"  she  said. 

"  How  false  you  women  are  !  "  cried  Diard.  "  Will 
you  dare  to  say  that*  Juan  is  not  the  child  of  your 
heart?" 

"  If  that  were  so,"  she  said,  with  dignity,  "  do  you 
think  it  a  misfortune?  " 

"  You  have  never  loved  me.  If  you  had  chosen,  I 
would  have  conquered  worlds  for  your  sake.  You 
know  all  that  I  have  struggled  to  do  in  life,  supported 
by  the  hope  of  pleasing  you.  Ah !  if  you  had  only 
loved  me !  " 

"A  woman  who  loves,"  said  Juana,  "likes  to  live 
in  solitude,  far  from  the  world,  and  that  is  what  we 
are  doing." 

"  I  know,  Juana,  that  you  are  never  in  the  wrong." 

The  words  were  said  bitterly,  and  cast,  for  the  rest 
of  their  lives  together,  a  coldness  between  them. 

On  the  morrow  of  that  fatal  day  Diard  went  back  to 
his  old  companions  and  found  distractions  for  his  mind 
in  play.  Unfortunately,  he  won  much  money,  and 
continued  playing.  Little  by  little,  he  returned  to  the 
dissipated  life  he  had  formerly  lived.  Soon  he  ceased 
even  to  dine  in  his  own  home. 


Juana.  68 

Some  months  went  by  in  the  enjoyment  of  this  new 
independence ;  he  was  determined  to  preserve  it,  and  in 
order  to  do  so  he  separated  himself  from  his  wife,  giv- 
ing her  the  large  apartments  and  lodging  himself  in  the 
entresol.  By  the  end  of  the  year  Diard  and  J  nana 
only  saw  each  other  in  the  morning  at  breakfast. 

Like  all  gamblers,  he  had  his  alternations  of  loss 
and  gain.  Not  wishing  to  cut  into  the  capital  of  his 
fortune,  he  felt  the  necessity  of  withdrawing  from  his 
wife  the  management  of  their  income ;  and  the  day 
came  when  he  took  from  her  all  she  had  hitherto  freely 
disposed  of  for  the  household  benefit,  giving  her  instead 
a  monthly  stipend.  The  conversation  they  had  on  this 
subject  was  the  last  of  their  married  intercourse.  The 
silence  that  fell  between  them  was  a  true  divorce ; 
Juana  comprehended  that  from  henceforth  she  was  only 
a  mother,  and  she  was  glad,  not  seeking  for  the  causes 
of  this  evil.  For  such  an  event  is  a  great  evil.  Chil- 
dren are  conjointly  one  with  husband  and  wife  in  the 
home,  and  the  life  of  her  husband  could  not  be  a  source 
of  grief  and  injury  to  Juana  only. 

As  for  Diard,  now  emancipated,  he  speedily  grew 
accustomed  to  win  and  lose  enormous  sums.  A  fine 
player  and  a  heavy  player,  he  soon  became  celebrated 
for  his  style  of  playing.  The  social  consideration  he 
had  been  unable  to  win  under  the  Empire,  he  acquired 
under  the  Restoration  by  the  rolling  of  his  gold  on  the 
green  cloth  and  by  his  talent  for  all  games  that  were 
in  vogue.  Ambassadors,  bankers,  persons  with  newly- 
acquired  large  fortunes,  and  all  those  men  who,  hav- 
ing sucked  life  to  the  dregs,  turn  to  gambling  for  its 
feverish  joys,  admired  Diard  at  their  clubs,  —  seldom 


64  Juana. 

in  their  own  houses,  — and  they  all  gambled  with  him. 
He  became  the  fashion.  Two  or  three  times  during 
the  winter  he  gave  a  fete  as  a  matter  of  social  pride  in 
return  for  the  civilities  he  received.  At  such  times 
Juana  once  more  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  world  of  balls, 
festivities,  luxury,  and  lights ;  but  for  her  it  was  a  sort 
of  tax  imposed  upon  the  comfort  of  her  solitude.  She, 
the  queen  of  these  solemnities,  appeared  like  a  being 
fallen  from  some  other  planet.  Her  simplicity,  which 
nothing  had  corrupted,  her  beautiful  virginity  of  soul, 
which  her  peaceful  life  restored  to  her,  her  beauty  and 
her  true  modesty,  won  her  sincere  homage.  But  ob- 
serving how  few  women  ever  entered  her  salons,  she 
came  to  understand  that  though  her  husband  was  fol- 
lowing, without  communicating  its  nature  to  her,  a  new 
line  of  conduct,  he  had  gained  nothing  actually  in  the 
world's  esteem. 

Diard  was  not  always  lucky  ;  far  from  it.  In  three 
years  he  had  dissipated  three  fourths  of  his  fortune,  but 
his  passion  for  play  gave  him  the  energy  to  continue 
it.  He  was  intimate  with  a  number  of  men,  more 
particularly  with  the  roues  of  the  Bourse,  men  who, 
since  the  revolution,  have  set  up  the  principle  that  rob- 
bery done  on  a  large  scale  is  only  a  smirch  to  the  repu- 
tation,—  transferring  thus  to  financial  matters  the  loose 
principles  of  love  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Diard 
now  became  a  sort  of  business  man,  and  concerned 
himself  in  several  of  those  affairs  which  are  called 
shady  in  the  slang  of  the  law-courts.  He  practised  the 
decent  thievery  by  which  so  many  men,  cleverly  masked, 
or  hidden  in  the  recesses  of  the  political  world,  make 
their  fortunes, —  thievery  which,  if  done  in  the  streets 


Juana.  65 

by  the  light  of  an  oil  lamp,  would  send  a  poor  devil  to 
the  galleys,  but,  under  gilded  ceilings  and  by  the  light 
of  candelabra,  is  sanctioned.  Diard  bought  up,  mo- 
nopolized, and  sold  sugars  ;  he  sold  offices ;  he  had  the 
glory  of  inventing  the  "man  of  straw"  for  lucrative 
posts  which  it  was  necessary  to  keep  in  his  own  hands 
for  a  short  time ;  he  bought  votes,  receiving,  on  one 
occasion,  so  much  per  cent  on  the  purchase  of  fifteen 
parliamentary  votes  which  all  passed  on  one  division 
from  the  benches  of  the  Left  to  the  benches  of  the 
Right.  Such  actions  are  no  longer  crimes  or  thefts, — 
they  are  called  governing,  developing  industry,  becom- 
ing a  financial  power.  Diard  was  placed  by  public 
opinion  on  the  bench  of  infamy  where  many  an  able 
man  was  already  seated.  On  that  bench  is  the  aristoc- 
racy of  evil.  It  is  the  upper  Chamber  of  scoundrels 
of  high  life.  Diard  was,  therefore,  not  a  mere  com- 
monplace gambler  who  is  seen  to  be  a  blackguard,  and 
ends  by  begging.  That  style  of  gambler  is  no  longer 
seen  in  society  of  a  certain  topographical  height.  In 
these  days  bold  scoundrels  die  brilliantly  in  the  chariot 
of  vice  with  the  trappings  of  luxury.  Diard,  at  least, 
did  not  buy  his  remorse  at  a  low  price  ;  he  made  him- 
self one  of  these  privileged  men.  Having  studied  the 
machinery  of  government  and  learned  all  the  secrets 
and  the  passions  of  the  men  in  power,  he  was  able  to 
maintain  himself  in  the  fiery  furnace  into  which  he  had 
spruug. 

Madame  Diard  knew  nothing  of  her  husband's  in- 
fernal life.  Glad  of  his  abandonment,  she  felt  no 
curiosity  about  him,  and  all  her  hours  were  occupied. 
She  devoted  what  money  she  had  to  the  education  of 

5 


66  Juana. 

her  children,  wishing  to  make  men  of  them,  and  giving 
them  straight-forward  reasons,  without,  however,  tak- 
ing the  bloom  from  their  young  imaginations.  Through 
them  alone  came  her  interests  and  her  emotions ;  con- 
sequently, she  suffered  no  longer  from  her  blemished 
life.  Her  children  were  to  her  what  they  are  to  many 
mothers  for  a  long  period  of  time, —  a  sort  of  renewal  of 
their  own  existence.  Diard  was  now  an  accidental 
circumstance,  not  a  participator  in  her  life,  and  since 
he  had  ceased  to  be  the  father  and  the  head  of  the 
family,  Juana  felt  bound  to  him  by  no  tie  other  than 
that  imposed  by  conventional  laws.  Nevertheless,  she 
brought  up  her  children  to  the  highest  respect  for  pater- 
nal authority,  however  imaginary  it  was  for  them.  In 
this  she  was  greatly  seconded  by  her  husband's  con- 
tinual absence.  If  he  had  been  much  in  the  home 
Diard  would  have  neutralized  his  wife's  efforts.  The 
boys  had  too  much  intelligence  and  shrewdness  not  to 
have  judged  their  father ;  and  to  judge  a  father  is  moral 
parricide. 

In  the  long  run,  however,  Juana's  indifference  to  her 
husband  wore  itself  away  ;  it  even  changed  to  a  species 
of  fear.  She  understood  at  last  how  the  conduct  of  a 
father  might  long  weigh  on  the  future  of  her  children, 
and  her  motherly  solicitude  brought  her  many,  though 
incomplete,  revelations  of  the  truth.  From  day  to  day 
the  dread  of  some  unknown  but  inevitable  evil  in  the 
shadow  of  which  she  lived  became  more  and  more 
keen  and  terrible.  Therefore,  during  the  rare  mo- 
ments when  Diard  and  Juana  met  she  would  cast  upon 
his  hollow  face,  wan  from  nights  of  gambling  and  fur- 
rowed by  emotions,  a  piercing  look,  the  penetration  of 


Juana.  67 

which  made  Diard  shudder.  At  such  times  the  as- 
sumed gayety  of  her  husband  alarmed  Juana  more 
than  his  gloomiest  expressions  of  anxiety  when,  by 
chance,  he  forgot  that  assumption  of  joy.  Diard  feared 
his  wife  as  a  criminal  fears  the  executioner.  In  him, 
Juana  saw  her  children's  shame ;  and  in  her  Diard 
dreaded  a  calm  vengeance,  the  judgment  of  that  serene 
brow,  an  arm  raised,  a  weapon  ready. 

After  fifteen  years  of  marriage  Diard  found  himself 
without  resources.  He  owed  three  hundred  thousand 
francs  and  he  could  scarcely  muster  one  hundred 
thousand.  The  house,  his  only  visible  possession,  was 
mortgaged  to  its  fullest  selling  value.  A  few  days 
more,  and  the  sort  of  prestige  with  which  opulence  had 
invested  him  would  vanish.  Not  a  hand  would  be 
offered,  not  a  purse  would  be  open  to  him.  Unless 
some  favorable  event  occurred  he  would  fall  into  a 
slough  of  contempt,  deeper  perhaps  than  he  deserved, 
precisely  because  he  had  mounted  to  a  height  he  could 
not  maintain.  At  this  juncture  he  happened  to  hear 
that  a  number  of  strangers  of  distinction,  diplomats 
and  others,  were  assembled  at  the  watering-places  in 
the  Pyrenees,  where  they  gambled  for  enormous  sums, 
and  were  doubtless  well  supplied  with  money. 

He  determined  to  go  at  once  to  the  Pyrenees ;  but 
he  would  not  leave  his  wife  in  Paris,  lest  some  impor- 
tunate creditor  might  reveal  to  her  the  secret  of  his 
horrible  position.  He  therefore  took  her  and  the  two 
children  with  him,  refusing  to  allow  her  to  take  the 
tutor  and  scarcely  permitting  her  to  take  a  maid.  His 
tone  was  curt  and  imperious ;  he  seemed  to  have  re- 
covered some  energy.     This  sudden  journey,  the  cause 


68  Juana. 

of  which  escaped  her  penetration,  alarmed  Juana 
secretly.  Her  husband  made  it  gayly.  Obliged  to 
occupy  the  same  carriage,  he  showed  himself  day  by 
day  more  attentive  to  the  children  and  more  amiable  to 
their  mother.  Nevertheless,  each  day  brought  Juana 
dark  presentiments,  the  presentiments  of  mothers  who 
tremble  without  apparent  reason,  but  who  are  seldom 
mistaken  when  they  tremble  thus.  For  them  the  veil 
of  the  future  seems  thinner  than  for  others. 

At  Bordeaux,  Diard  hired  in  a  quiet  street  a  quiet 
little  house,  neatly  furnished,  and  in  it  he  established 
his  wife.  The  house  was  at  the  corner  of  two  streets, 
and  had  a  garden.  Joined  to  the  neighboring  house 
on  one  side  only,  it  was  open  to  view  and  accessible 
on  the  other  three  sides.  Diard  paid  the  rent  in  ad- 
vance, and  left  Juana  barely  enough  money  for  the 
necessary  expenses  of  three  months,  a  sum  not  exceed- 
ino;  a  thousand  francs.  Madame  Diard  made  no  obser- 
vation  on  this  unusual  meanness.  When  her  husband 
told  her  that  he  was  going  to  the  watering-places  and 
that  she  would  stay  at  Bordeaux,  Juana  offered  no 
difficulty,  and  at  once  formed  a  plan  to  teach  the  chil- 
dren Spanish  and  Italian,  and  to  make  them  read  the 
two  masterpieces  of  the  two  languages.  She  was  glad 
to  lead  a  retired  life,  simply  and  naturally  economical. 
To  spare  herself  the  troubles  of  material  life,  she  ar- 
ranged with  a  traiteur  the  day  after  Diard's  departure 
to  send  in  their  meals.  Her  maid  then  sufficed  for  the 
service  of  the  house,  and  she  thus  found  herself  with- 
out money,  but  her  wants  all  provided  for  until  her 
husband's  return.  Her  pleasures  consisted  in  taking 
walks  with  the  children.     She  was  then   thirty-three 


Juana.  69 

years  old.  Her  beauty,  greatly  developed,  was  in  all 
its  lustre.  Therefore  as  soon  as  she  appeared,  much 
talk  was  made  in  Bordeaux  about  the  beautiful  Span- 
ish stranger.  At  the  first  advances  made  to  her  Juana 
ceased  to  walk  abroad,  and  confined  herself  wholly  to 
her  own  large  garden. 

Diard  at  first  made  a  fortune  at  the  baths.  In  two 
mouths  he  won  three  hundred  thousand  dollars,  but  it 
never  occurred  to  him  to  send  any  money  to  his  wife ; 
he  kept  it  all,  expecting  to  make  some  great  stroke  of 
fortune  on  a  vast  stake.  Towards  the  end  of  the 
second  month  the  Marquis  de  Montefiore  appeared  at 
the  same  baths.  The  marquis  was  at  this  time  cele- 
brated for  his  wealth,  his  handsome  face,  his  fortunate 
marriage  with  an  Englishwoman,  and  more  especially 
for  his  love  of  play.  Diard,  his  former  companion, 
encountered  him,  and  desired  to  add  his  spoils  to  those 
of  others.  A  gambler  with  four  hundred  thousand 
francs  in  hand  is  always  in  a  position  to  do  as  he 
pleases.  Diard,  confident  in  his  luck,  renewed  ac- 
quaintance with  Montefiore.  The  latter  received  him 
very  coldly,  but  nevertheless  they  played  together,  and 
Diard  lost  every  penny  that  he  possessed,  and  more. 

"  My  dear  Montefiore,"  said  the  ex-quartermaster, 
after  making  a  tour  of  the  salon,  "I  owe  you  a  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  ;  but  my  money  is  in  Bordeaux, 
where  I  have  left  my  wife  " 

Diard  had  the  money  in  bank-bills  in  his  pocket ; 
but  with  the  self-possession  and  rapid  bird's-eye  view 
of  a  man  accustomed  to  catch  at  all  resources,  he  still 
hoped  to  recover  himself  by  some  one  of  the  endless 
caprices    of  play.     Montefiore  had  already  mentioned 


70  Juana. 

( 

his  intention  of  visiting  Bordeaux.     Had  he  paid  his 

debt  on  the  spot,  Diard  would  have  been  left  without 
the  power  to  take  his  revenge ;  a  revenge  at  cards 
often  exceeds  the  amount  of  all  preceding  losses. 
But  these  burning  expectations  depended  on  the  mar- 
quis's reply. 

"  Wait,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Montefiore,  "  and  we 
will  go  together  to  Bordeaux.  In  all  conscience,  I  am 
rich  enough  to-day  not  to  wish  to  take  the  money  of 
an  old  comrade." 

Three  days  later  Diard  and  Montefiore  were  in  Bor- 
deaux at  a  gambling  table.  Diard,  having  won  enough 
to  pay  his  hundred  thousand  francs,  went  on  until  he 
had  lost  two  hundred  thousand  more  on  his  word.  He 
was  gay  as  a  man  who  swam  in  gold.  Eleven  o'clock 
sounded ;  the  night  was  superb.  Montefiore  may  have 
felt,  like  Diard,  a  desire  to  breathe  the  open  air  and 
recover  from  such  emotions  in  a  walk.  The  latter 
proposed  to  the  marquis  to  come  home  with  him  to 
take  a  cup  of  tea  and  get  his  money. 

"  But  Madame  Diard?"  said  Montefiore. 

"Bah!  "  exclaimed  the  husband. 

They  went  down-stairs  ;  but  before  taking  his  hat 
Diard  entered  the  dining-room  of  the  establishment  and 
asked  for  a  glass  of  water.  While  it  was  being  brought, 
he  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  and  was  able,  with- 
out being  noticed,  to  pick  up  one  of  those  small  sharp- 
pointed  steel  knives  with  pearl  handles  which  are  used 
for  cutting  fruit  at  dessert. 

"  Where  do  you  live?  "  said  Montefiore,  in  the  court- 
yard, "  for  I  want  to  send  a  carriage  there  to  fetch  me." 

Diard  told  him  the  exact  address. 


Juana.  71 

"  You  see,"  said  Montefiore,  in  a  low  voice,  taking 
Diard's  arm,  "  that  as  long  as  I  am  with  you  I  have 
nothing  to  fear ;  but  if  I  came  home  alone  and  a  scoun- 
drel were  to  follow  me,  I  should  be  profitable  to  kill." 

"  Have  you  much  with  you?  " 

"  No,  not  much,"  said  the  wary  Italian,  "  only  my 
winnings.  But  they  would  make  a  pretty  fortune  for 
a  beggar  and  turn  him  into  an  honest  man  for  the  rest 
of  his  life." 

Diard  led  the  marquis  along  a  lonely  street  where  he 
remembered  to  have  seen  a  house,  the  door  of  which 
was  at  the  end  of  an  avenue  of  trees  with  high  and 
gloomy  walls  on  either  side  of  it.  When  they  reached 
this  spot  he  coolly  invited  the  marquis  to  precede  him ; 
but  as  if  the  latter  understood  him  he  preferred  to  keep 
at  his  side.  Then,  no  sooner  were  they  fairly  in  the 
avei.ue,  than  Diard,  with  the  agility  of  a  tiger,  tripped 
up  the  marquis  with  a  kick  behind  the  knees,  and  put- 
ting a  foot  on  his  neck  stabbed  him  again  and  again  to 
the  heart  till  the  blade  of  the  knife  broke  in  it.  Then  he 
searched  Montefiore's  pockets,  took  his  wallet,  money, 
everything.  But  though  he  had  taken  the  Italian 
unawares,  and  had  done  the  deed  with  lucid  mind  and 
the  quickness  of  a  pickpocket,  Montefiore  had  time  to 
cry  "  Murder  !  Help  !  "  in  a  shrill  and  piercing  voice 
which  was  fit  to  rouse  every  sleeper  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. His  last  sighs  were  given  in  those  horrible 
shrieks. 

Diard  was  not  aware  that  at  the  moment  when  they 
entered  the  avenue  a  crowd  just  issuing  from  a  theatre 
was  passing  at  the  upper  end  of  the  street.  The  cries 
of  the  dying  man  reached  them,  though  Diard  did  his 


72  Juana. 

best  to  stifle  the  noise  by  setting  his  foot  firmly  on 
Montefiore's  neck.  The  crowd  began  to  run  towards 
the  avenue,  the  high  walls  of  which  appeared  to 
echo  back  the  cries,  directing  them  to  the  very  spot 
where  the  crime  was  committed.  The  sound  of  their 
coming  steps  seemed  to  beat  on  Diard's  brain.  But 
not  losing  his  head  as  yet,  the  murderer  left  the  avenue 
and  came  boldly  into  the  street,  walking  very  gently, 
like  a  spectator  who  sees  the  inutility  of  trying  to  give 
help.  He  even  turned  round  once  or  twice  to  judge  of 
the  distance  between  himself  and  the  crowd,  and  he 
saw  them  rushing  up  the  avenue,  with  the  exception  of 
one  man,  who,  with  a  natural  sense  of  caution,  began 
to  watch  Diard. 

"  There  he  is !  there  he  is!"  cried  the  people,  who 
had  entered  the  avenue  as  soon  as  they  saw  Montefiore 
stretched  out  near  the  door  of  the  empt}7  house. 

As  soon  as  that  clamor  rose,  Diard,  feeling  himself 
well  in  the  advance,  began  to  run  or  rather  to  fty,  with 
the  vigor  of  a  lion  and  the  bounds  of  a  deer.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  street  he  saw,  or  fancied  he  saw,  a 
mass  of  persons,  and  he  dashed  down  a  cross  street  to 
avoid  them.  But  already  every  window  was  open, 
and  heads  were  thrust  forth  right  and  left,  while  from 
every  door  came  shouts  and  gleams  of  light.  Diard 
kept  on,  going  straight  before  him,  through  the  lights 
and  the  noise ;  and  his  legs  were  so  actively  agile  that 
he  soon  left  the  tumult  behind  him,  though  without 
being  able  to  escape  some  eyes  which  took  in  the  ex- 
tent of  his  course  more  rapidly  than  he  could  cover  it. 
Inhabitants,  soldiers,  gendarmes,  every  one,  seemed 
afoot  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.     Some  men  awoke 


Juana.  73 

the  commissaries  of  police,  others  stayed  by  the  body 
to  guard  it.  The  pursuit  kept  on  in  the  direction  of 
the  fugitive,  who  dragged  it  after  him  like  the  flame  of 
a  conflagration. 

Diard,  as  he  ran,  had  all  the  sensations  of  a  dream 
when  he  heard  a  whole  city  howling,  running,  panting 
after  him.  Nevertheless,  he  kept  his  ideas  and  his 
presence  of  mind.  Presently  he  reached  the  wall  of 
the  garden  of  his  house.  The  place  was  perfectly  silent, 
and  he  thought  he  had  foiled  his  pursuers,  though  a 
distant  murmur  of  the  tumult  came  to  his  ears  like  the 
roaring  of  the  sea.  He  dipped  some  water  from  a 
brook  and  drank  it.  Then,  observing  a  pile  of  stones 
on  the  road,  he  hid  his  treasure  in  it;  obeying  one  of 
those  vague  thoughts  which  come  to  criminals  at  a 
mo.nent  when  the  faculty  to  judge  their  actions  under 
all  bearings  deserts  them,  and  they  think  to  establish 
their  innocence  by  want  of  proof  of  their  guilt. 

That  done,  he  endeavored  to  assume  a  placid 
countenance  ;  he  even  tried  to  smile  as  he  rapped  softly 
on  the  door  of  his  house,  hoping  that  no  one  saw  him. 
He  raised  his  eyes,  and  through  the  outer  blinds  of  one 
window  came  a  gleam  of  light  from  his  wife's  room. 
Then,  in  the  midst  of  his  trouble,  visions  of  her  gentle 
life,  spent  with  her  children,  beat  upon  his  brain 
with  the  force  of  a  hammer.  The  maid  opened  the 
door,  which  Diard  hastily  closed  behind  him  with  a 
kick.  For  a  moment  he  breathed  freely  ;  then,  noticing 
that  he  was  bathed  in  perspiration,  he  sent  the  servant 
back  to  Juana  and  stayed  in  the  darkness  of  the 
passage,  where  he  wiped  his  face  with  his  handkerchief 
and  put  his  clothes  in  order,  like  a  dandy  about  to  pay 


74  Juana. 

a  visit  to  a  pretty  woman.  After  that  he  walked  into 
a  track  of  the  moonlight  to  examine  his  hands.  A 
quiver  of  joy  passed  over  him  as  he  saw  that  no  blood 
stains  were  on  them ;  the  hemorrhage  from  his  victim's 
body  was  no  doubt  inward. 

But  all  this  took  time.  When  at  last  he  mounted 
the  stairs  to  Juana's  room  he  was  calm  and  collected, 
and  able  to  reflect  on  his  position,  which  resolved  itself 
into  two  ideas :  to  leave  the  house,  and  get  to  the 
wharves.  He  did  not  think  these  ideas,  he  saw  them 
written  in  fiery  letters  on  the  darkness.  Once  at  the 
wharves  he  could  hide  all  day,  return  at  night  for  his 
treasure,  then  conceal  himself,  like  a  rat,  in  the  hold  of 
some  vessel  and  escape  without  any  one  suspecting  his 
whereabouts.  But  to  do  all  this,  money,  gold,  was  his 
first  necessity,  — and  he  did  not  possess  one  penny. 

The  maid  brought  a  light  to  show  him  up. 

"  Felicie,"  he  said,  "don't  you  hear  a  noise  in  the 
street,  shouts,  cries?  Go  and  see  what  it  means,  and 
come  and  tell  me." 

His  wife,  in  her  white  dressing-gown,  was  sitting  at 
a  table,  reading  aloud  to  Francisque  and  Juan  from  a 
Spanish  Cervantes,  while  the  boys  followed  her  pronun- 
ciation of  the  words  in  the  text.  They  all  three 
stopped  and  looked  at  Diard,  who  stood  in  the  door- 
way with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  ;  overcome,  perhaps, 
by  finding  himself  in  this  calm  scene,  so  softly  lighted, 
so  beautiful  with  the  faces  of  his  wife  and  children. 
It  was  a  living  picture  of  the  Virgin  between  her  son 
and  John. 

"  Juana,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"What  has  happened?"  she  asked,  instantly  per- 


Juana.  75 

ceiving  from  the  livid  paleness  of  her  husband  that  the 
misfortune  she  had  daily  expected  was  upon  them. 

"Oh,  nothing;  but  I  want  to  speak  to  you  —  to 
you,  alone." 

And  he  glanced  at  his  sons. 

"  My  dears,  go  to  your  room,  and  go  to  bed,"  said 
Juana ;    "  say  your  prayers  without  me." 

The  boys  left  the  room  in  silence,  with  the  incurious 
obedience  of  well- trained  children. 

"My  clear  Juana,"  said  Diard,  in  a  coaxing  voice, 
"  I  left  you  with  very  little  money,  and  I  regret  it  now. 
Listen  to  me ;  since  I  relieved  you  of  the  care  of  our 
income  by  giving  you  an  allowance,  have  you  not,  like 
other  women,  laid  something  by?" 

"  No,"  replied  Juana,  "  I  have  nothing.  In  making 
that  allowance  you  did  not  reckon  the  costs  of  the 
children's  education.  I  don't  say  that  to  reproach  you, 
my  friend,  only  to  explain  my  want  of  money.  All 
that  you  gave  me  went  to  pay  masters  and  —  " 

"Enough!"  cried  Diard,  violently.  "Thunder  of 
heaven !  every  instant  is  precious !  Where  are  your 
jewels?" 

"  You  know  very  well  I  have  never  worn  any." 

"Then  there's  not  a  sou  to  be  had  here!"  cried 
Diard,  frantically. 

"  Why  do  you  shout  in  that  way?  "  she  asked. 

"Juana,"  he  replied,  "  1  have  killed  a  man." 

Juana  sprang  to  the  door  of  her  children's  room  and 
closed  it ;  then  she  returned. 

"  Your  sons  must  hear  nothing,"  she  said.  "  With 
whom  have  you  fought?  " 

"  Montefiore,"  he  replied. 


76  Juana. 

"Ah!"  she  said  with  a  sigh,  "the  only  man  you 
had  the  right  to  kill." 

"  There  were  many  reasons  why  he  should  die  by 
my  hand.  But  I  can't  lose  time  —  Money,  money! 
for  God's  sake,  money  !  I  may  be  pursued.  We  did 
not  fight.     I  —  I  killed  him." 

"  Killed  him  !  "  she  cried,  "  how?  " 

"Why,  as  one  kills  anything.  He  stole  my  whole 
fortune  and  I  took  it  back,  that's  all.  Juana,  now 
that  everything  is  quiet  you  must  go  down  to  that  heap 
of  stones  —  you  know  the  heap  by  the  garden  wall  — 
and  get  that  money,  since  you  haven't  any  in  the 
house." 

"  The  money  that  you  stole?  "  said  Juana. 

"What  does  that  matter  to  you?  Have  you  any 
money  to  give  me?  I  tell  you  I  must  get  away. 
They  are  on  my  traces." 

"Who?" 

"  The  people,  the  police." 

Juana  left  the  room,  but  returned  immediately. 

"  Here,"  she  said,  holding  out  to  him  at  arm's 
length  a  jewel,  "  that  is  Dona  Lagounia's  cross. 
There  are  four  rubies  in  it,  of  great  value,  I  have  been 
told.     Take  it  and  go  —  go !  " 

"  Felicie  has  n't  come  back,"  he  cried,  with  a  sud- 
den thought.     "  Can  she  have  been  arrested?'3 

Juana  laid  the  cross  on  the  table,  and  sprang  to  the 
windows  that  looked  on  the  street.  There  she  saw, 
in  the  moonlight,  a  file  of  soldiers  posting  them- 
selves in  deepest  silence  along  the  wall  of  the 
house.  She  turned,  affecting  to  be  calm,  and  said  to 
her  husband :  — 


Juana.  77 

" You  have  not  a  minute  to  lose;  you  must  escape 
through  the  garden.  Here  is  the  key  of  the  little 
gate." 

As  a  precaution  she  turned  to  the  other  windows, 
looking  on  the  garden.  In  the  shadow  of  the  trees  she 
saw  the  gleam  of  the  silver  lace  on  the  hats  of  a  body 
of  gendarmes ;  and  she  heard  the  distant  m titterings 
of  a  crowd  of  persons  whom  sentinels  were  holding 
back  at  the  end  of  the  streets  up  which  curiosity  had 
drawn  them.  Diard  had,  in  truth,  been  seen  to  enter 
his  house  by  persons  at  their  windows,  and  on  their 
information  and  that  of  the  frightened  maid-servant, 
who  »*c*s  arrested,  the  troops  and  the  people  had 
blocked  the  two  streets  which  led  to  the  house.  A 
dozen  gendarmes,  returning  from  the  theatre,  had 
climbed  the  walls  of  the  garden,  and  guarded  all  exit 
in  that  direction. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Juana,  "you  cannot  escape.  The 
whole  town  is  here." 

Diard  ran  from  window  to  window  with  the  useless 
activity  of  a  captive  bird  striking  against  the  panes  to 
escape.     Juana  stood  silent  and  thoughtful. 

"Juana,  dear  Juana,  help  me!  give  me,  for  pity's 
sake,  some  advice." 

"  Yes,"  said  Juana,  "  I  will ;  and  I  will  save  you." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  always  my  good  angel." 

Juana  left  the  room  and  returned  immediately,  hold- 
ing out  to  Diard,  with  averted  head,  one  of  his  own 
pistols.  Diard  did  not  take  it.  Juana  heard  the  en- 
trance of  the  soldiers  into  the  courtyard,  where  they 
laid  down  the  body  of  the  murdered  man  to  confront 
the  assassin  with  the  sight  of  it.     She  turned  round 


78  Juana. 

and  saw  Diard  white  and  livid.  The  man  was  nearly 
fainting,  and  tried  to  sit  down. 

"  Your  children  implore  you,"  she  said,  putting  the 
pistol  beneath  his  hand. 

"But  —  my  good  Juana,  my  little  Juana,  do  you 
think  —  Juana!  is  it  so  pressing?  —  I  want  to  kiss 
you." 

The  gendarmes  were  mounting  the  staircase.  Juana 
grasped  the  pistol,  aimed  it  at  Diard,  holding  him,  in 
spite  of  his  cries,  by  the  throat ;  then  she  blew  his 
brains  out  and  flung  the  weapon  on  the  ground. 

At  that  instant  the  door  was  opened  violently. 
The  public  prosecutor,  followed  by  an  examining 
judge,  a  doctor,  a  sheriff,  and  a  posse  of  gendarmes, 
all  the  representatives,  in  short,  of  human  justice, 
entered  the  room. 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  asked  Juana. 

"Is  that  Monsieur  Diard?"  said  the  prosecutor, 
pointing  to  the  dead  body  bent  double  on  the  floor. 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"Your  gown  is  covered  with  blood,  madame." 

"  Do  you  not  see  why?"  replied  Juana. 

She  went  to  the  little  table  and  sat  down,  taking  up 
the  volume  of  Cervantes  ;  she  was  pale,  with  a  nervous 
agitation  which  she  nevertheless  controlled,  keeping  it 
wholly  inward. 

"  Leave  the  room,"  said  the  prosecutor  to  the 
gendarmes. 

Then  he  signed  to  the  examining  judge  and  the  doc- 
tor to  remain. 

"  Madame,  under  the  circumstances,  we  can  only 
congratulate  you  on  the  death  of  your  husband,"  he 


Juana.  79 

said.  "  At  least  he  has  died  as  a  soldier  should,  what- 
ever crime  his  passions  may  have  led  him  to  commit. 
His  act  renders  nugatory  that  of  justice.  But  how- 
ever we  may  desire  to  spare  you  at  such  a  moment, 
the  law  requires  that  we  should  make  an  exact  report 
of  all  violent  deaths.  You  will  permit  us  to  do  our 
duty?" 

"  May  I  go  and  change  my  dress?  "  she  asked,  lay- 
ing down  the  volume. 

"  Yes,  madame ;  but  you  must  bring  it  back  to  us. 
The  doctor  may  need  it." 

"  It  would  be  too  painful  for  madame  to  see  me 
operate,"  said  the  doctor,  understanding  the  suspicions 
of  the  prosecutor.  "  Messieurs,"  he  added,  "I  hope 
you  will  allow  her  to  remain  in  the  next  room." 

The  magistrates  approved  the  request  of  the  merci- 
ful physician,  and  Felicie  was  permitted  to  attend  her 
mistress.  The  judge  and  the  prosecutor  talked  to- 
gether in  a  low  voice.  Officers  of  the  law  are  very 
unfortunate  in  being  forced  to  suspect  all,  and  to 
imagine  evil  everywhere.  By  dint  of  supposing  wicked 
intentions,  and  of  comprehending  them,  in  order  to 
reach  the  truth  hidden  under  so  many  contradictory 
actions,  it  is  impossible  that  the  exercise  of  their 
dreadful  functions  should  not,  in  the  long  run,  dry  up 
at  their  source  the  generous  emotions  they  are  con- 
strained to  repress.  If  the  sensibilities  of  the  surgeon 
who  probes  into  the  mysteries  of  the  human  body  end 
by  growing  callous,  what  becomes  of  those  of  the 
judge  who  is  incessantly  compelled  to  search  the  inner 
folds  of  the  soul?  Martyrs  to  their  mission,  magis- 
trates are  all  their  lives  in  mourning  for  their  lost  illu- 


80  Juana. 

sions;  crime  weighs  no  less  heavily  on  them  than  on 
the  criminal.  An  old  man  seated  on  the  bench  is 
venerable,  but  a  young  judge  makes  a  thoughtful  per- 
son shudder.  The  examining  judge  in  this  case  was 
young,  and  he  felt  obliged  to  say  to  the  public  prose- 
cutor, — 

"  Do  you  think  that  woman  was  her  husband's  ac- 
complice? Ought  we  to  take  her  into  custody?  Is  it 
best  to  question  her?  " 

The  prosecutor  replied,  with  a  careless  shrug  of  his 
shoulders,  — 

"  Montefiore  and  Diard  were  two  well-known  scoun- 
drels. The  maid  evidently  knew  nothing  of  the  crime. 
Better  let  the  thing  rest  there." 

The  doctor  performed  the  autopsy,  and  dictated  his 
report  to  the  sheriff.  Suddenly  he  stopped,  and  hastily 
entered  the  next  room. 

'"  Madame  —  "  he  said. 

Juana,  who  had  removed  her  bloody  gown,  came 
towards  him. 

"  It  was  you,"  he  whispered,  stooping  to  her  ear, 
"  who  killed  your  husband." 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  she  replied. 

The  doctor  returned  and  continued  his  dictation  as 
follows,  — 

"  And,  from  the  above  assemblage  of  facts,  it  ap- 
pears evident  that  the  said  Diard  killed  himself  vol- 
untarily and  by  his  own  hand." 

"  Have  you  finished?  "  he  said  to  the  sheriff  after  a 
pause. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  writer. 

The  doctor  signed  the  report.     Juana,  who  had  fol- 


Juana.  81 

lowed  him  into  the  room,  gave  him  one  glance,  repress- 
ing with  difficulty  the  tears  which  for  an  instant  rose 
into  her  eyes  and  moistened  them. 

"  Messieurs,"  she  said  to  the  public  prosecutor  and 
the  judge,  "lama  stranger  here,  and  a  Spaniard.  I 
am  ignorant  of  the  laws,  and  I  know  no  one  in  Bor- 
deaux. I  ask  of  you  one  kindness :  enable  me  to  ob- 
tain a  passport  for  Spain." 

"  One  moment!"  cried  the  examining  judge. 
"Madame,  what  has  become  of  the  money  stolen 
from  the  Marquis  de  Montefiore  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  Diard,"  she  replied,  "said  something  to 
me  vaguely  about  a  heap  of  stones,  under  which  he 
must  have  hidden  it." 

"Where?" 

"In  the  street." 

The  two  magistrates  looked  at  each  other.  Juana 
made  a  noble  gesture  and  motioned  to  the  doctor. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said  in  his  ear,  "  can  I  be  sus- 
pected of  some  infamous  action?  I!  The  pile  of 
stones  must  be  close  to  the  wall  of  my  garden.  Go 
yourself,  I  implore  you.  Look,  search,  find  that 
money." 

The  doctor  went  out,  taking  with  him  the  examining 
judge,  and  together  they  found  Montefiore's  treasure. 

Within  two  days  Juana  had  sold  her  cross  to  pay 
the  costs  of  a  journey.  On  her  way  with  her  two  chil- 
dren to  take  the  diligence  which  would  carry  her  to  the 
frontiers  of  Spain,  she  heard  herself  called  in  the 
street.  Her  dying  mother  was  being  carried  to  a  hos- 
pital, and  through  the  curtains  of  her  litter  she  had 
seen  her  daughter.     Juana  made  the  bearers  enter  a 

6 


82  Juana. 

porte-cochere  that  was  near  them,  and  there  the  last 
interview  of  the  mother  and  the  daughter  took  place. 
Though  the  two  spoke  to  each  other  in  a  low  voice, 
Juan  heard  these  parting  words,  — 

"  Mother,  die  in   peace ;  I  have   suffered   for  you 
all." 


ADIEU. 


ADIEU. 


TO  PRINCE  FREDERIC   SCHWARTZENBURG. 


AN  OLD  MONASTERY. 

"  Come,  deputy  of  the  Centre,  forward!  Quick 
step !  march!  if  we  want  to  be  in  time  to  dine  with  the 
others.  Jump,  marquis  !  there,  that's  right !  why,  you 
can  skip  across  a  stubble-field  like  a  deer  !  " 

These  words  were  said  by  a  huntsman  peacefully 
seated  at  the  edge  of  the  forest  of  ile-Adam,  who  was 
finishing  an  Havana  cigar  while  waiting  for  his  com- 
panion, who  had  lost  his  way  in  the  tangled  underbrush 
of  the  wood.  At  his  side  four  panting  dogs  were 
watching,  as  he  did,  the  personage  he  addressed.  To 
understand  how  sarcastic  were  these  exhortations, 
repeated  at  intervals,  we  should  state  that  the  approach- 
ing huntsman  was  a  stout  little  man  whose  protuberant 
stomach  was  the  evidence  of  a  truly  ministerial  embon- 
point.    He  was  struggling  painfully  across  the  furrows 


86  ■  Adieu. 

of  a  vast  wheat-field  recently  harvested,  the  stubble  of 
which  considerably  impeded  him  ;  while  to  add  to  his 
other  miseries  the  sun's  rays,  striking  obliquely  on  his 
face,  collected  an  abundance  of  drops  of  perspiration. 
Absorbed  in  the  effort  to  maintain  his  equilibrium,  he 
leaned,  now  forward  now  back,  in  close  imitation  of 
the  pitching  of  a  carriage  when  violently  jolted.  The 
weather  looked  threatening.  Though  several  spaces  of 
blue  sky  still  parted  the  thick  black  clouds  toward  the 
horizon,  a  flock  of  fleecy  vapors  were  advancing  with 
great  rapidity  and  drawing  a  light  gray  curtain  from 
east  to  west.  As  the  wind  was  acting  only  on  the  upper 
region  of  the  air,  the  atmosphere  below  it  pressed  down 
the  hot  vapors  of  the  earth.  Surrounded  by  masses 
of  tall  trees,  the  valley  through  which  the  hunter 
struggled  felt  like  a  furnace.  Parched  and  silent,  the 
forest  seemed  thirsty.  The  birds,  even  the  insects, 
were  voiceless ;  the  tree-tops  scarcely  waved.  Those 
persons  who  may  still  remember  the  summer  of  1819 
can  imagine  the  woes  of  the  poor  deputy,  who  was 
struggling  along,  drenched  in  sweat,  to  regain  his 
mocking  friend.  The  latter,  while  smoking  his  cigar, 
had  calculated  from  the  position  of  the  sun  that  it  must 
be  about  five  in  the  afternoon. 

"  Where  the  devil  are  we?"  said  the  stout  huntsman, 
mopping  his  forehead  and  leaning  against  the  trunk  of 
a  tree  nearly  opposite  to  his  companion,  for  he  felt  un- 
equal to  the  effort  of  leaping  the  ditch  between  them. 

"  That 's  for  me  to  ask  you,"  said  the  other,  laughing, 
as  he  lay  among  the  tall  brown  brake  which  crowned  the 
bank.  Then,  throwing  the  end  of  his  cigar  into  the 
ditch,   he  cried   out  vehemently:   "I  swear  by   Saint 


Adieu.  87 

Hubert  that  never  again  will  I  trust  myself  in  unknown 
regions  with  a  statesman,  though  he  be,  like  you,  my 
dear  d'Albon,  a  college  mate." 

"  But,  Philippe,  have  you  forgotten  your  French? 
Or  \iave  you  left  your  wits  in  Siberia  ?  "  replied  the 
stout  man,  casting  a  sorrowfully  comic  look  at  a  sign- 
post about  a  hundred  feet  away. 

"True,  true,"  cried  Philippe,  seizing  his  gun  and 
springing  with  a  bound  into  the  field  and  thence  to  the 
post.  "  This  way,  d'Albon,  this  way,  "  he  called  back 
to  his  friend,  pointing  to  a  broad  paved  path  and  read- 
ing aloud  the  sign:  "'From  Baillet  to  lie-Adam.' 
We  shall  certainly  find  the  path  to  Cassan,  wiiich 
must  branch  from  this  one  between  here  and  lie- 
Adam." 

"You  are  right,  colonel,"  said  Monsieur  d'Albon, 
replacing  upon  his  head  the  cap  with  which  he  had 
been  fanning  himself. 

"  Forward  then,  my  respectable  privy  councillor," 
replied  Colonel  Philippe,  whistling  to  the  dogs,  who 
seemed  more  willing  to  obey  him  than  the  public  func- 
tionary to  whom  they  belonged. 

"  Are  you  aware,  marquis,"  said  the  jeering  soldier, 
"that  we  still  have  six  miles  to  go?  That  village  over 
there  must  be  Baillet." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  cried  the  marquis,  "  go  to  Cassan 
if  you  must,  but  you'll  go  alone.  I  prefer  to  stay 
here,  in  spite  of  the  coming  storm,  and  wait  for  the 
horse  you  can  send  me  from  the  chateau.  You  've 
played  me  a  trick,  Sucy.  We  were  to  have  had  a  nice 
little  hunt  not  far  from  Cassan,  and  beaten  the  coverts 
I  know.     Instead  of  that,   you  have  kept  me  running 


88  Adieu. 

like  a  hare  since  four  o'clock  this  morning,  and  all  I  've 
had  for  breakfast  is  a  cup  of  milk.  Now,  if  you  ever 
have  a  petition  before  the  Court,  I  '11  make  you  lose  it, 
however  just  your  claim." 

The  poor  discouraged  huntsman  sat  down  on  a  stone 
that  supported  the  signpost,  relieved  himself  of  his  gun 
and  his  gamebag,  and  heaved  a  long  sigh. 

"France  !  such  are  thy  deputies  !  "  exclaimed  Colonel 
de  Sucy,  laughing.  "  Ah !  my  poor  d'Albon,  if  you 
had  been  like  me  six  years  in  the  wilds  of  Siberia  —  " 

He  said  no  more,  but  he  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven 
as  if  that  anguish  were  between  himself  and  God. 

"Come,  march  on  ! "  he  added.  "If  you  sit  still 
you  are  lost." 

"  How  can  I,  Philippe?  It  is  an  old  magisterial 
habit  to  sit  still.  On  my  honor  !  I  'm  tired  out  —  If 
I  had  only  killed  a  hare  !  " 

The  two  men  presented  a  rather  rare  contrast :  the 
public  functionary  was  forty-two  years  of  age  and 
seemed  no  more  than  thirty,  whereas  the  soldier  was 
thirty,  and  seemed  forty  at  the  least.  Both  wore  the 
red  rosette  of  the  officers  of  the  Legion  of  honor.  A 
few  spare  locks  of  black  hair  mixed  with  white,  like  the 
wing  of  a  magpie,  escaped  from  the  colonel's  cap, 
while  handsome  brown  curls  adorned  the  brow  of  the 
statesman.  One  was  tall,  gaunt,  high-strung,  and  the 
lines  of  his  pallid  face  showed  terrible  passions  or 
frightful  griefs.  The  other  had  a  face  that  was  bril- 
liant with  health,  and  jovially  worthy  of  an  epicurean. 
Both  were  deeply  sun-burned,  and  their  high  gaiters 
of  tanned  leather  showed  signs  of  the  bogs  and  the 
thickets  they  had  just  come  through. 


Adieu.  89 

"Come,"'  said  Monsieur  de  Sucy,  {1let  us  get  on. 
A  short  hour's  inarch,  and  we  shall  reach  Cassan  in  time 
for  a  good  dinner." 

"  It  is  easy  to  see  you  have  never  loved,"  replied  the 
councillor,  with  a  look  that  was  pitifully  comic ; 
"  you  are  as  relentless  as  article  304  of  the  penal 
code." 

Philippe  de  Sucy  quivered ;  his  broad  brow  con- 
tracted ;  his  face  became  as  sombre  as  the  skies  above 
them.  Some  memory  of  awful  bitterness  distorted  for 
a  moment  his  features,  but  he  said  nothing.  Like  all 
strong  men,  he  drove  down  his  emotions  to  the  depths 
of  his  heart ;  thinking  perhaps,  as  simple  characters  are 
apt  to  think,  that  there  was  something  immodest  in 
unveiling  griefs  when  human  language  cannot  render 
their  depths  and  may  only  rouse  the  mockery  of  those 
who  will  not  comprehend  them.  Monsieur  d'Albon 
had  one  of  those  delicate  natures  which  divine  sorrows, 
and  are  instantly  sympathetic  to  the  emotion  they  have 
involuntarily  aroused.  He  respected  his  friend's 
silence,  rose,  forgot  his  fatigue,  and  followed  him 
silently,  grieved  to  have  touched  a  wound  that  was 
evidently  not  healed. 

"  Some  day,  my  friend,"  said  Philippe,  pressing  his 
hand,  and  thanking  him  for  his  mute  repentance  by  a 
heart-rending  look,  "  I  will  relate  to  you  my  life.  To- 
day I  cannot." 

They  continued  their  way  in  silence.  When  the 
colonel's  pain  seemed  soothed,  the  marquis  resumed 
his  fatigue ;  and  with  the  instinct,  or  rather  the  will,  of 
a  wearied  man  his  eye  took  in  the  very  depths  of  the 
forest;  he  questioned  the  tree- tops  and  examined  the 


90  Adieu. 

branching  paths,  hoping  to  discover  some  dwelling 
where  he  could  ask  hospitality.  Arriving  at  a  cross- 
ways,  he  thought  he  noticed  a  slight  smoke  rising 
among  the  trees ;  he  stopped,  looked  more  attentively, 
and  saw,  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  copse,  the  dark-green 
branches  of  several  pine-trees. 

"A  house!  a  house!"  he  cried,  with  the  joy  the 
sailor  feels  in  crying  u  Land  !  " 

Then  he  sprang  quickly  into  the  copse,  and  the 
colonel,  who  had  fallen  into  a  deep  revery,  followed 
him  mechanically. 

"  I  'd  rather  get  an  omelet,  some  cottage  bread,  and 
a  chair  here,"  he  said,  "  than  go  to  Cassan  for  sofas, 
truffles,  and  Bordeaux." 

These  words  were  an  exclamation  of  enthusiasm, 
elicited  from  the  councillor  on  catching  sight  of  a  wall, 
the  white  towers  of  which  glimmered  in  the  distance 
through  the  brown  masses  of  the  tree  trunks. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  this  looks  to  me  as  if  it  had  once  been  a 
priory,"  cried  the  marquis,  as  they  reached  a  very  old 
and  blackened  gate,  through  which  they  could  see,  in 
the  midst  of  a  large  park,  a  building  constructed  in  the 
style  of  the  monasteries  of  old.  "  How  those  rascals 
the  monks  knew  how  to  choose  their  sites !  " 

This  last  exclamation  was  an  expression  of  surprise 
and  pleasure  at  the  poetical  hermitage  which  met  his 
eyes.  The  house  stood  on  a  slope  of  the  mountain,  at 
the  summit  of  which  is  the  village  of  Nerville.  The 
great  centennial  oaks  of  the  forest  which  encircled  the 
dwelling  made  the  place  an  absolute  solitude.  The 
main  building,  formerly  occupied  by  the  monks,  faced 
south.     The  park  seemed  to  have  about  forty  acres. 


Adieu.  91 

Near  the  house  lay  a  succession  of  green  meadows, 
charmingly  crossed  by  several  clear  rivulets,  with 
here  and  there  a  piece  of  water  naturally  placed  with- 
out the  least  apparent  artifice.  Trees  of  elegant  shape 
and  varied  foliage  were  distributed  about.  Grottos, 
cleverly  managed,  and  massive  terraces  with  dilapi- 
dated steps  and  rusty  railings,  gave  a  peculiar  char- 
acter to  this  lone  retreat.  Art  had  harmonized  her 
constructions  with  the  picturesque  effects  of  nature. 
Human  passions  seemed  to  die  at  the  feet  of  those 
great  trees,  which  guarded  this  asylum  from  the  tumult 
of  the  world  as  they  shaded  it  from  the  fires  of  the 
sun. 

"How  desolate!"  thought  Monsieur  d'Albon,  ob- 
serving the  sombre  expression  which  the  ancient  build- 
ing gave  to  the  landscape,  gloomy  as  though  a  curse 
were  on  it.  It  seemed  a  fatal  spot  deserted  by  man. 
Ivy  had  stretched  its  tortuous  muscles,  covered  by  its 
rich  green  mantle,  everywhere.  Brown  or  green,  red 
or  yellow  mosses  and  lichen  spread  their  romantic  tints 
on  trees  and  seats  and  roofs  and  stones.  The  crum- 
bling window-casings  were  hollowed  by  rain,  defaced  by 
time ;  the  balconies  were  broken,  the  terraces  demol- 
ished. Some  of  the  cutside  shutters  hung  from  a 
single  hinge.  The  rotten  doors  seemed  quite  unable  to 
resist  an  assailant.  Covered  with  shining  tufts  of 
mistletoe,  the  branches  of  the  neglected  fruit-trees 
gave  no  signs  of  fruit.  Grass  grew  in  the  paths. 
Such  ruin  and  desolation  cast  a  wierd  poesy  on  the 
scene,  filling  the  souls  of  the  spectators  with  dreamy 
thoughts.  A  poet  would  have  stood  there  long, 
plunged   in  a  melancholy   revery,   admiring   this   dis- 


92  Adieu. 

order  so  full  of  harmony,  this  destruction  which  was 
not  without  its  grace.  Suddenly,  the  brown  tiles 
shone,  the  mosses  glittered,  fantastic  shadows  danced 
upon  the  meadows  and  beneath  the  trees ;  fading 
colors  revived  ;  striking  contrasts  developed,  the  foli- 
age  of  the  trees  and  shrubs  defined  itself  more  clearly 
in  the  light.  Then  —  the  light  went  out.  The  land- 
scape seemed  to  have  spoken,  and  now  was  silent, 
returning  to  its  gloom,  or  rather  to  the  soft  sad  tones 
of  an  autumnal  twilight. 

"  It  is  the  palace  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty,"  said  the 
marquis,  beginning  to  view  the  house  with  the  eyes  of 
a  land  owner.  "  I  wonder  to  whom  it  belongs!  He 
must  be  a  stupid  fellow  not  to  live  in  such  an  exquisite 
spot." 

At  that  instant  a  woman  sprang  from  beneath  a 
chestnut-tree  standing  to  the  right  of  the  gate,  and, 
without  making  any  noise,  passed  before  the  marquis 
as  rapidly  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud.  This  vision  made 
him  mute  with  surprise. 

"  Why,  Albon,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked  the 
colonel. 

"  I  am  rubbing  my  eyes  to  know  if  I  am  asleep  or 
awake,"  replied  the  marquis,  with  his  face  close  to  the 
iron  rails  as  he  tried  to  get  another  sight  of  the 
phantom. 

"  She  must  be  beneath  that  fig-tree,"  he  said,  point- 
ing to  the  foliage  of  a  tree  which  rose  above  the  wall 
to  the  left  of  the  gate." 

"She!  who?" 

"  How  can  I  tell?  "  replied  Monsieur  d' Albon.  "  A 
strange  woman  rose  up  there,  just  before  me,"  he  said 


Adieu.  93 

in  a  low  voice ;  "she  seemed  to  come  from  the  world 
of  shades  rather  than  the  land  of  the  living.  She  is  so 
slender,  so  light,  so  filmy,  she  must  be  diaphanous. 
Her  face  was  as  white  as  milk ;  her  eyes,  her  clothes, 
her  hair  jet  black.  She  looked  at  me  as  she  flitted  by, 
and  though  I  may  say  I'm  no  coward,  that  cold  im- 
movable look  froze  the  blood  in  my  veins." 

"  Is  she  pretty?  "  asked  Philippe. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  could  see  nothing  but  the  eyes  in 
that  face." 

"  Well,  let  the  dinner  at  Cassan  go  to  the  devil !  " 
cried  the  colonel.  "  Suppose  we  stay  here.  I  have  a 
sudden  childish  desire  to  enter  that  singular  house. 
Do  you  see  those  window-frames  painted  red,  and  the 
red  lines  on  the  doors  and  shutters?  Doesn't  the 
place  look  to  you  as  if  it  belonged  to  the  devil  ?  —  per- 
haps he  inherited  it  from  the  monks.  Come,  let  us 
pursue  the  black  and  white  lady  —  forward,  march  !  " 
cried  Philippe,  with  forced  gayety. 

At  that  instant  the  two  huntsmen  heard  a  cry  that 
was  something  like  that  of  a  mouse  caught  in  a  trap. 
They  listened.  The  rustle  of  a  few  shrubs  sounded 
in  the  silence  like  the  murmur  of  a  breaking  wave.  In 
vain  they  listened  for  other  sounds ;  the  earth  was 
dumb,  and  kept  the  secret  of  those  light  steps,  if,  in- 
deed, the  unknown  woman  moved  at  all. 

kt  It  is  very  singular !  "  said  Philippe,  as  they  skirted 
the  park  wall. 

The  two  friends  presently  reached  a  path  in  the 
forest  which  led  to  the  village  of  Chauvry.  After  fol- 
lowing this  path  some  way  toward  the  main  road  to 
Paris,  they  came  to  another  iron  gate  which  led  to  the 


94  Adieu. 

principal  facade  of  the  mysterious  dwelling.  On  this 
side  the  dilapidation  and  disorder  of  the  premises  had 
reached  their  height.  Immense  cracks  furrowed  the 
walls  of  the  house,  which  was  built  on  three  sides  of  a 
square.  Fragments  of  tiles  and  slates  lying  on  the 
ground,  and  the  dilapidated  condition  of  the  roofs, 
were  evidence  of  a  total  want  of  care  on  the  part  of 
the  owners.  The  fruit  had  fallen  from  the  trees  and 
lay  rotting  on  the  ground  ;  a  cow  was  feeding  on  the 
lawn  and  treading  down  the  flowers  in  the  borders, 
while  a  goat  browsed  on  the  shoots  of  the  vines  and 
munched  the  unripe  grapes. 

"Here  all  is  harmony;  the  devastation  seems  or- 
ganized," said  the  colonel,  pulling  the  chain  of  a  bell; 
but  the  bell  was  without  a  clapper. 

The  huntsmen  heard  nothing  but  the  curiously  sharp 
noise  of  a  rusty  spring.  Though  very  dilapidated,  a 
little  door  made  in  the  wall  beside  the  iron  gates 
resisted  all  their  efforts  to  open  it. 

"  Well,  well,  this  is  getting  to  be  exciting,"  said  de 
Sucy  to  his  companion. 

k'If  I  were  not  a  magistrate,"  replied  Monsieur 
d'Albon,  "  I  should  think  that  woman  was  a  witch." 

As  he  said  the  words,  the  cow  came  to  the  iron  gate 
and  pushed  her  warm  muzzle  towards  them,  as  if  she 
felt  the  need  of  seeing  human  beings.  Then  a  woman, 
if  that  name  could  be  applied  to  the  indefinable  being 
who  suddenly  issued  from  a  clump  of  bushes,  pulled 
away  the  cow  by  its  rope.  This  woman  wore  on  her 
head  a  red  handkerchief,  beneath  which  trailed  long 
locks  of  hair  in  color  and  shape  like  the  flax  on  a  dis- 
taff.    She  wore  no  fichu.     A  coarse  woollen  petticoat 


Adieu.  95 

in  black  and  gray  stripes,  too  short  by  several  inches, 
exposed  her  legs.  She  might  have  belonged  to  some 
tribe  of  Red-Skins  described  by  Cooper,  for  her  legs, 
neck,  and  arms  were  the  color  of  brick.  No  ray  of 
intelligence  enlivened  her  vacant  face.  A  few  whitish 
hairs  served  her  for  eyebrows  ;  the  eyes  themselves,  of 
a  dull  blue,  were  cold  and  wan ;  and  her  mouth  was  so 
formed  as  to  show  the  teeth,  which  were  crooked,  but 
as  white  as  those  of  a  dog. 

4 'Here,  my  good  woman!"  called  Monsieur  de 
Sucy. 

She  came  very  slowly  to  the  gate,  looking  with  a 
silly  expression  at  the  two  huntsmen,  the  sight  of 
whom  brought  a  forced  and  painful  smile  to  her  face. 

4 '  Where  are  we?  Whose  house  is  this?  Who  are 
you?     Do  you  belong  here?  " 

To  these  questions  and  several  others  which  the  two 
friends  alternately  addressed  to  her,  she  answered  only 
with  guttural  sounds  that  seemed  more  like  the  growl 
of  an  animal  than  the  voice  of  a  human  being. 

"  She  must  be  deaf  and  dumb,"  said  the  marquis. 

"  Bons-Hommes !  "  cried  the  peasant  woman. 

"  Ah  !  I  see.  This  is,  no  doubt,  the  old  monastery 
of  the  Bons-Hommes,"  said  the  marquis. 

He  renewed  his  questions.  But,  like  a  capricious 
child,  the  peasant  woman  colored,  played  with  her 
wooden  shoe,  twisted  the  rope  of  the  cow,  which  was 
now  feeding  peaceably,  and  looked  at  the  two  hunters, 
examining  every  part  of  their  clothing ;  then  she 
yelped,  growled,  and  clucked,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  said  Philippe,  looking  at  her 
fixedly,  as  if  he  meant  to  mesmerize  her. 


96  Adieu. 

"  Genevieve,"  she  said,  laughing  with  a  silly  air. 

u  The  cow  is  the  most  intelligent  being  we  have 
seen  so  far,"  said  the  marquis.  "  I  shall  fire  my  gun 
and  see  if  that  will  bring  some  one." 

Just  as  d'Albon  raised  his  gun,  the  colonel  stopped 
him  with  a  gesture,  and  pointed  to  the  form  of  a 
woman,  probably  the  one  who  had  so  keenly  piqued 
his  curiosity.  At  this  moment  she  seemed  lost  in  the 
deepest  meditation,  and  was  coming  with  slow  steps 
along  a  distant  pathway,  so  that  the  two  friends  had 
ample  time  to  examine  her. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  ragged  gown  of  black  satin. 
Her  long  hair  fell  in  masses  of  curls  over  her  forehead, 
around  her  shoulders,  and  below  her  waist,  serving  her 
for  a  shawl.  Accustomed  no  doubt  to  this  disorder, 
she  seldom  pushed  her  hair  from  her  forehead ;  and 
when  she  did  so,  it  was  with  a  sudden  toss  of  her  head 
which  only  for  a  moment  cleared  her  forehead  and 
eyes  from  the  thick  veil.  Her  gesture,  like  that  of  an 
animal,  had  a  remarkable  mechanical  precision,  the 
quickness  of  which  seemed  wonderful  in  a  woman.  The 
huntsmen  were  amazed  to  see  her  suddenly  leap  up  on 
the  branch  of  an  apple-tree,  and  sit  there  with  the  ease 
of  a  bird.  She  gathered  an  apple  and  ate  it ;  then  she 
dropped  to  the  ground  with  the  graceful  ease  we  ad- 
mire in  a  squirrel.  Her  limbs  possessed  an  elasticity 
which  took  from  every  movement  the  slightest  appear- 
ance of  effort  or  constraint.  She  played  upon  the 
turf,  rolling  herself  about  like  a  child  ;  then,  suddenly, 
she  flung  her  feet  and  hands  forward,  and  lay  at  full 
length  on  the  grass,  with  the  grace  and  natural  ease  of 
a  young   cat  asleep  in  the  sun.     Thunder  sounded  in 


Adieu.  97 

the  distance,  and  she  turned  suddenly,  rising  on  her 
hands  and  knees  with  the  rapidity  of  a  dog  which  hears 
a  coming  footstep. 

The  effect  of  this  singular  attitude  was  to  separate 
into  two  heavy  masses  the  volume  of  her  black  hair, 
which  now  fell  on  either  side  of  her  head,  and  allowed 
the  two  spectators  to  admire  the  white  shoulders  glis- 
tening like  daisies  in  a  field,  and  the  throat,  the  per- 
fection of  which  allowed  them  to  judge  of  the  other 
beauties  of  her  figure. 

Suddenly  she  uttered  a  distressful  cry  and  rose  to 
her  feet.  Her  movements  succeeded  each  other  with 
such  airiness  and  grace  that  she  seemed  not  a  creature 
of  this  world  but  a  daughter  of  the  atmosphere,  as  sung 
in  the  poems  of  Ossian.  She  ran  toward  a  piece  of 
water,  shook  one  of  her  legs  lightly  to  cast  off  her 
shoe,  and  began  to  dabble  her  foot,  white  as  alabaster, 
in  the  current,  admiring,  perhaps,  the  undulations  she 
thus  produced  upon  the  surface  of  the  water.  Then 
she  knelt  down  at  the  ectee  of  the  stream  and  amused 
herself,  like  a  child,  in  casting  in  her  long  tresses  and 
pulling  them  abruptly  out,  to  watch  the  shower  of 
drops  that  glittered  down,  looking,  as  the  sunlight 
struck  athwart  them,   like  a  chaplet  of  pearls. 

"  That  woman  is  mad  !  "  cried  the  marquis. 

A  hoarse  cry,  uttered  by  Genevieve,  seemed  uttered 
as  a  warning  to  the  unknown  woman,  who  turned  sud- 
denly, throwing  back  her  hair  from  either  side  of  her 
face.  At  this  instant  the  colonel  and  Monsieur 
d'Albon  could  distinctly  see  her  features ;  she,  herself, 
perceiving  the  two  friends,  sprang  to  the  iron  railing 
with  the  lightness  and  rapidity  of  a  deer. 


98  Adieu. 

"  Adieu  !  "  she  said,  in  a  soft,  harmonious  voice,  the 
melody  of  which  did  not  convey  the  slightest  feeling  or 
the  slightest  thought. 

Monsieur  d'Albon  admired  the  long  lashes  of  her 
eyelids,  the  blackness  of  her  eyebrows,  and  the  daz- 
zling whiteness  of  a  skin  devoid  of  even  the  faintest 
tinge  of  color.  Tiny  blue  veins  alone  broke  the  uni- 
formity of  its  pure  white  tones.  When  the  marquis 
turned  to  his  friend  as  if  to  share  with  him  his  amaze- 
ment at  the  sight  of  this  singular  creature,  he  found 
him  stretched  on  the  ground  as  if  dead.  D'Albon 
fired  his  gun  in  the  air  to  summon  assistance,  crying 
out  "Help!  help!"  and  then  endeavored  to  revive 
the  colonel.  At  the  sound  of  the  shot,  the  unknown 
woman,  who  had  hitherto  stood  motionless,  fled  away 
with  the  rapidity  of  an  arrow,  uttering  cries  of  fear 
like  a  wounded  animal,  and  running  hither  and  thither 
about  the  meadow  with  every  sign  of  the  greatest 
terror. 

Monsieur  d'Albon,  hearing  the  rumbling  of  a  carriage 
on  the  high-road  to  lie- Adam,  waved  his  handkerchief 
and  shouted  to  its  occupants  for  assistance.  The 
carriage  was  immediately  driven  up  to  the  old  monas- 
tery, and  the  marquis  recognized  his  neighbors,  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  de  Granville,  who  at  once  gave  up 
their  carriage  to  the  service  of  the  two  gentlemen. 
Madame  de  Granville  had  with  her,  by  chance,  a  bottle 
of  salts,  which  revived  the  colonel  for  a  moment. 
When  he  opened  his  eyes  he  turned  them  to  the  mea- 
dow, where  the  unknown  woman  was  still  running  and 
uttering  her  distressing  cries.  A  smothered  exclama- 
tion escaped  him,  which  seemed  to  express  a  sense  of 


Adieu.  99 

horror ;  then  he  closed  his  eyes  again,  and  made  a  ges- 
ture as  if  to  implore  his  friend  to  remove  him  from  that 
sight. 

Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Granville  placed  their 
carriage  entirely  at  the  disposal  of  the  marquis,  assuring 
him  courteously  that  they  would  like  to  continue  their 
way  on  foot. 

"Who  is  that  lady?"  asked  the  marquis,  signing 
toward  the  unknown  woman. 

"  I  believe  she  comes  from  Moulins,"  replied  Mon- 
sieur de  Granville.  "  She  is  the  Comtesse  de  Vandieres, 
and  they  say  she  is  mad  ;  but  as  she  has  only  been 
here  two  months  I  will  not  vouch  for  the  truth  of  these 
hearsays." 

Monsieur  d'Albon  thanked  his  friends,  and  placing 
the  colonel  in  the  carriage,  started  with  him  for  Cassan. 

"  It  is  she !  "  cried  Philippe,  recovering  his  senses. 

"  Who  is  she?"  asked  d'Albon. 

"  Stephanie.  Ah,  dead  and  living,  living  and  mad  ! 
I  fancied  I  was  dying." 

The  prudent  marquis,  appreciating  the  gravity  of 
the  crisis  through  which  his  friend  was  passing,  was 
careful  not  to  question  or  excite  him ;  he  was  only 
anxious  to  reach  the  chateau,  for  the  change  which  had 
taken  place  in  the  colonel's  features,  in  fact  in  his 
whole  person,  made  him  fear  for  his  friend's  reason. 
As  soon,  therefore,  as  the  carriage  had  reached  the  main 
street  of  tie- Adam,  he  dispatched  the  footman  to  the 
village  doctor,  so  that  the  colonel  was  no  sooner  fairly 
in  his  bed  at  the  chateau  than  the  physician  was  beside 
him. 

"  If    monsieur  had    not   been   many   hours  without 


100  Adieu. 

food  the  shock  would  have  killed  him,"  said  the 
doctor. 

After  naming  the  first  precautions,  the  doctor  left 
the  room,  to  prepare,  himself,  a  calming  potion.  The 
next  day,  Monsieur  de  Sucy  was  better,  but  the  doctor 
still  watched  him  carefully. 

44 1  will  admit  to  you,  monsieur  le  marquis,"  he  said, 
"  that  I  have  feared  some  affection  of  the  brain.  Mon- 
sieur de  Sucy  has  received  a  violent  shock  ;  his  passions 
are  strong ;  but,  in  him,  the  first  blow  decides  all. 
To-morrow  he  may  be  entirely  out  of  danger." 

The  doctor  was  not  mistaken ;  and  the  following  day 
he  allowed  the  marquis  to  see  his  friend. 

u  My  dear  d'Albon,"  said  Philippe,  pressing  his  hand, 
"lam  going  to  ask  a  kindness  of  you.  Go  to  the 
Bons-Hommes,  and  find  out  all  you  can  of  the  lady  we 
saw  there  ;  and  return  to  me  as  quickly  as  you  can ;  I 
shall  count  the  minutes." 

Monsieur  d'Albon  mounted  his  horse  at  once,  and 
galloped  to  the  old  abbey.  When  he  arrived  there,  he 
saw  before  the  iron  gate  a  tall,  spare  man  with  a  very 
kindly  face,  who  answered  in  the  affirmative  when 
asked  if  he  lived  there.  Monsieur  d'Albon  then  in- 
formed him  of  the  reasons  for  his  visit. 

41  What!  monsieur,"  said  the  other,  "was  it  you 
who  fired  that  fatal  shot?  You  very  nearly  killed  my 
poor  patient." 

"But,  monsieur,  I  fired  in  the  air." 

u  You  would  have  done  the  countess  less  harm  had 
you  fired  at  her." 

44  Then  we  must  not  reproach  each  other,  monsieur, 
for  the  sight  of  the  countess  has  almost  killed  my  friend, 
Monsieur  de  Sucy." 


Adieu.  101 

"  Heavens  !  can  you  mean  Baron  Philippe  de  Sucy  ?': 
cried  the  doctor,  clasping  his  bands.  kl  I)>d  b«  g*>  to 
Russia ;  was  he  at  the  passage  of  the  Bercsina?'1 

"  Yes,"  replied  d'Albon,  "  he  was  captured  by  the 
Cossacks  and  kept  for  five  years  in  Siberia ;  he  re- 
covered his  liberty  a  few  months  ago." 

"  Come  in,  monsieur,"  said  the  master  of  the  house, 
leading  the  marquis  into  a  room  on  the  lower  floor 
where  everything  bore  the  marks  of  capricious  destruc- 
tion. The  silken  curtains  beside  the  windows  were 
torn,  while  those  of  muslin  remained  intact. 

li  You  see,"  said  the  tall  old  man,  as  they  entered, 
"  the  ravages  committed  by  that  dear  creature,  to  whom 
I  devote  myself.  She  is  my  niece  ;  in  spite  of  the  im- 
potence of  my  art,  I  hope  some  day  to  restore  her 
reason  by  attempting  a  method  which  can  only  be 
employed,  unfortunately,  by  very  rich  people." 

Then,  like  all  persons  living  in  solitude  who  are 
afflicted  with  an  ever  present  and  ever  renewed  grief, 
he  related  to  the  marquis  at  great  length  the  following 
narrative,  which  is  here  condensed,  and  relieved  of  the 
many  digressions  made  by  both  the  narrator  and  the 
listener. 


102  Adieu. 


II. 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  BERESINA. 


Marechal  Victor,  when  he  started,  about  nine  at 
night,  from  the  heights  of  Studzianka,  which  he  had 
defended,  as  the  rear-guard  of  the  retreating  army, 
during  the  whole  day  of  December  28th,  1812,  left  a 
thousand  men  behind  him,  with  orders  to  protect  to  the 
last  possible  moment  whichever  of  the  two  bridges 
across  the  Beresina  might  still  exist.  This  rear-guard 
had  devoted  itself  to  the  task  of  saving  a  frightful  mul- 
titude of  stragglers  overcome  by  the  cold,  who  obsti- 
nately refused  to  leave  the  bivouacs  of  the  army.  The 
heroism  of  this  generous  troop  proved  useless.  The 
stragglers  who  nocked  in  masses  to  the  banks  of  the 
Beresina  found  there,  unhappily,  an  immense  number 
of  carriages,  caissons,  and  articles  of  all  kinds  which 
the  army  had  been  forced  to  abandon  when  effecting 
its  passage  of  the  river  on  the  27th  and  28th  of  Novem- 
ber. Heirs  to  such  unlooked-for  riches,  the  unfortunate 
men,  stupid  with  cold,  took  up  their  abode  in  the  de- 
serted bivouacs,  broke  up  the  material  which  they  found 
there  to  build  themselves  cabins,  made  fuel  of  every- 
thing that  came  to  hand,  cut  up  the  frozen  carcasses 
of  the  horses  for  food,  tore  the  cloth  and  the  curtains 
from  the  carriages  for  coverlets,  and  went  to  sleep, 
instead  of  continuing  their  way  and  crossing  quietly 


Adieu.  103 

during  the  night  that  cruel  Beresina,  which  an  incredible 
fatality  had  already  made  so  destructive  to  the  army. 

The  apathy  of  these  poor  soldiers  can  only  be  con- 
ceived by  those  who  remember  to  have  crossed  vast 
deserts  of  snow  without  other  perspective  than  a  snow 
horizon,  without  other  drink  than  snow,  without  other  bed 
than  snow,  without  other  food  than  snow  or  a  few  frozen 
beet-roots,  a  few  handfuls  of  flour,  or  a  little  horseflesh. 
Dying  of  hunger,  thirst,  fatigue,  and  want  of  sleep, 
these  unfortunates  reached  a  shore  where  they  saw 
before  them  wood,  provisions,  innumerable  camp  equi- 
pages, and  carriages,  —  in  short  a  whole  town  at  their 
service.  The  village  of  Studzianka  had  been  wholly 
taken  to  pieces  and  conveyed  from  the  heights  on  which 
it  stood  to  the  plain.  However  forlorn  and  dangerous 
that  refuge  might  be,  its  miseries  and  its  perils  only 
courted  men  who  had  lately  seen  nothing  before  them 
but  the  awful  deserts  of  Russia.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  vast 
asylum  which  had  an  existence  of  twenty-four  hours 
only. 

Utter  lassitude,  and  the  sense  of  unexpected  comfort, 
made  that  mass  of  men  inaccessible  to  every  thought 
but  that  of  rest.  Though  the  artillery  of  the  left  wing 
of  the  Russians  kept  up  a  steady  fire  on  this  mass,  — 
visible  like  a  stain  now  black,  now  flaming,  in  the  midst 
of  the  trackless  snow,  —  this  shot  and  shell  seemed  to 
the  torpid  creatures  only  one  inconvenience  the  more. 
It  was  like  a  thunderstorm,  despised  by  all  because 
the  lightning  strikes  so  few ;  the  balls  struck  only, 
here  and  there,  the  dying,  the  sick,  the  dead  sometimes  ! 
Stragglers  arrived  in  groups  continually  ;  but  once  here 
those  perambulating  corpses  separated ;   each  begged 


104  Adieu. 

for  himself  a  place  near  a  fire  ;  repulsed  repeatedly, 
they  met  again,  to  obtain  by  force  the  hospitality  already 
refused  to  them.  Deaf  to  the  voice  of  some  of  their 
officers,  who  warned  them  of  probable  destruction  on 
the  morrow,  they  spent  the  amount  of  courage  neces- 
sary to  cross  the  river  in  building  that  asylum  of  a 
night,  in  making  one  meal  that  they  themselves  doomed 
to  be  their  last.  The  death  that  awaited  them  they 
considered  no  evil,  provided  they  could  have  that  one 
night's  sleep.  They  thought  nothing  evil  but  hunger, 
thirst,  and  cold.  When  there  was  no  more  wood  or 
food  or  fire,  horrible  struggles  took  place  between 
fresh-comers  and  the  rich  who  possessed  a  shelter. 
The  weakest  succumbed. 

At  last  there  came  a  moment  when  a  number,  pur- 
sued by  the  Russians,  found  only  snow  on  which  to 
bivouac,  and  these  lay  down  to  rise  no  more.  Insen- 
sibly this  mass  of  almost  annihilated  beings  became 
so  compact,  so  deaf,  so  torpid,  so  happy  perhaps,  that 
Marechal  Victor,  who  had  been  their  heroic  defender 
by  holding  twenty  thousand  Russians  under  Wittgen- 
stein at  bay,  was  forced  to  open  a  passage  by  main 
force  through  this  forest  of  men  in  order  to  cross  the 
Beresina  with  the  five  thousand  gallant  fellows  whom 
he  was  taking  to  the  emperor.  The  unfortunate 
malingerers  allowed  themselves  to  be  crushed  rather 
than  stir ;  they  perished  in  silence,  smiling  at  their 
extinguished  fires,  without  a  thought  of  France. 

It  was  not  until  ten  o'clock  that  nis;ht  that  Marechal 
Victor  reached  the  bank  of  the  river.  Before  crossing 
the  bridge  which  led  to  Zembin,  he  confided  the  fate  of 
his  own  rear-guard  now  left  in  Studzianka  to  Eble,  the 


Adieu.  105 

savior  of  all  those  who  survived  the  calamities  of  the 
Beresina.  It  was  towards  midnight  when  this  great 
general,  followed  by  one  brave  officer,  left  the  cabin  he 
occupied  near  the  bridge,  and  studied  the  spectacle  of 
that  improvised  camp  placed  between  the  bank  of  the 
river  and  Studzianka.  The  Russian  cannon  had  ceased 
to  thunder.  Innumerable  fires,  which,  amid  that  track- 
less waste  of  snow,  burned  pale  and  scarcely  sent  out 
any  gleams,  illumined  here  and  there  by  sudden  flashes 
forms  and  faces  that  were  barely  human.  Thirty 
thousand  poor  wretches,  belonging  to  all  nations,  from 
whom  Napoleon  had  recruited  his  Russian  army,  were 
trifling  away  their  lives  with  brutish  indifference. 

"  Let  us  save  them !  "  said  General  Eble  to  the 
officer  who  accompanied  him.  "  To-morrow  morning 
the  Russians  will  be  masters  of  Studzianka.  We  must 
burn  the  bridge  the  moment  they  appear.  Therefore, 
my  friend,  take  your  courage  in  your  hand  !  Go  to 
the  heights.  Tell  General  Fournier  he  has  barely 
time  to  evacuate  his  position,  force  a  way  through  this 
crowd,  and  cross  the  bridge.  When  you  have  seen  him 
in  motion  follow  him.  Find  men  you  can  trust,  and 
the  moment  Fournier  has  crossed  the  bridge,  burn, 
without  pity,  huts,  equipages,  caissons,  carriages,  — 
everything !  Drive  that  mass  of  men  to  the  bridge. 
Compel  all  that  has  two  legs  to  get  to  the  other  side  of 
the  river.  The  burning  of  everything  —  everything  — 
is  now  our  last  resource.  If  Berthier  had  let  me  de- 
stroy those  damned  camp  equipages,  this  river  would 
swallow  only  my  poor  pontoniers,  those  fifty  heroes 
who  will  save  the  army,  but  who  themselves  will  be 
forgotten." 


106  Adieu. 

The  general  laid  his  hand  on  his  forehead  and  was 
silent.  He  felt  that  Poland  would  be  his  grave,  and 
that  no  voice  would  rise  to  do  justice  to  those  noble 
men  who  stood  in  the  water,  the  icy  water  of  the 
Beresina,  to  destroy  the  buttresses  of  the  bridges. 
One  alone  of  those  heroes  still  lives  —  or,  to  speak  more 
correctly,  suffers  —  in  a  village,  totally  ignored. 

The  aide-de-camp  started.  Hardly  had  this  gener- 
ous officer  gone  a  hundred  yards  towards  Studzianka 
than  General  Eble  wakened  a  number  of  his  weary 
pontoniers,  and  began  the  work,  —  the  charitable  work 
of  burning  the  bivouacs  set  up  about  the  bridge,  and 
forcing  the  sleepers,  thus  dislodged,  to  cross  the  river. 

Meanwhile  the  young  aide-de-camp  reached,  not 
without  difficulty,  the  only  wooden  house  still  left 
standing  in  Studzianka. 

"  This  barrack  seems  pretty  full,  comrade,"  he  said 
to  a  man  whom  he  saw  by  the  doorway. 

"  If  you  can  get  in  you  '11  be  a  clever  trooper," 
replied  the  officer,  without  turning  his  head  or  ceasing 
to  slice  off  with  his  sabre  the  bark  of  the  logs  of 
which  the  house  was  built. 

"Is  that  you,  Philippe?"  said  the  aide-de-camp, 
recognizing  a  friend  by  the  tones  of  his  voice. 

"Yes.  Ha,  ha!  is  it  you,  old  fellow?"  replied 
Monsieur  de  Sucy,  looking  at  the  aide-de-camp,  who, 
like  himself,  was  only  twenty-three  years  of  age.  "  1 
thought  you  were  the  other  side  of  that  cursed  river. 
What  are  you  here  for  ?  Have  you  brought  cakes  and 
wine  for  our  dessert?  You'll  be  welcome,"  and  he 
went  on  slicing  off  the  bark,  which  he  gave  as  a  sort 
of  provender  to  his  horse. 


Adieu.  107 

"  I  am  looking  for  your  commander  to  tell  him,  from 
General  Eble,  to  make  for  Zembin.  You  '11  have  barely 
time  to  get  through  that  crowd  of  men  below.  I  am 
going  presently  to  set  fire  to  their  camp  and  force  them 
to  march/' 

"You  warm  me  up  —  almost!  That  news  makes 
me  perspire.  I  have  two  friends  I  must  save.  Ah ! 
without  those  two  to  cling  to  me,  I  should  be  dead 
already.  It  is  for  them  that  I  feed  my  horse  and  don't 
eat  myself.  Have  you  any  food,  —  a  mere  crust?  It  is 
thirty  hours  since  anything  has  gone  into  my  stomach, 
and  yet  I  have  fought  like  a  madman  —  just  to  keep  a 
little  warmth  and  courage  in  me." 

"Poor  Philippe,  I  have  nothing — nothing!  But 
where  's  your  general,  —  in  this  house?" 

"  No,  don't  go  there  ;  the  place  is  full  of  wounded. 
Go  up  the  street ;  you  '11  find  on  your  left  a  sort  of 
pig-pen ;  the  general  is  there.  Good-bye,  old  fellow. 
If  we  ever  dance  a  trenis  on  a  Paris  floor  —  " 

He  did  not  end  his  sentence ;  the  north  wind  blew 
at  that  moment  with  such  ferocity  that  the  aide-de- 
camp hurried  on  to  escape  being  frozen,  and  the  lips 
of  Major  de  Sucy  stiffened.  Silence  reigned,  broken 
only  by  the  moans  which  came  from  the  house,  and  the 
dull  sound  made  by  the  major's  horse  as  it  chewed  in  a 
fury  of  hunger  the  icy  bark  of  the  trees  with  which  the 
house  was  built.  Monsieur  de  Sucy  replaced  his  sabre 
in  its  scabbard,  took  the  bridle  of  the  precious  horse 
he  had  hitherto  been  able  to  preserve,  and  led  it,  in 
spite  of  the  animal's  resistance,  from  the  wretched 
fodder  it  appeared  to  think  excellent. 

"We'll  start,  Bichette,  we '11  start!     There's  none 


108  Adieu. 

but  you,  my  beauty,  who  can  save  Stephanie.  Ha! 
by  and  bye  you  and  I  may  be  able  to  rest  —  and  die," 
he  added. 

Philippe,  wrapped  in  a  fur  pelisse,  to  which  he  owed  his 
preservation  and  his  energy,  began  to  run,  striking  his 
feet  hard  upon  the  frozen  snow  to  keep  them  warm. 
Scarcely  had  he  gone  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the 
village  than  he  saw  a  blaze  in  the  direction  of  the  place 
where,  since  morning,  he  had  left  his  carriage  in  charge 
of  his  former  orderly,  an  old  soldier.  Horrible  anxiety 
laid  hold  of  him.  Like  all  others  who  were  controlled 
during  this  fatal  retreat  by  some  powerful  sentiment, 
he  found  a  strength  to  save  his  friends  which  he  could 
not  have  put  forth  to  save  himself. 

Presently  he  reached  a  slight  declivity  at  the  foot  of 
which,  in  a  spot  sheltered  from  the  enemy's  balls,  he 
had  stationed  the  carriage,  containing  a  young  woman, 
the  companion  of  his  childhood,  the  being  most  dear  to 
him  on  earth.  At  a  few  steps  distant  from  the  vehicle 
he  now  found  a  company  of  some  thirty  stragglers 
collected  around  an  immense  fire,  which  they  were  feed- 
ing with  planks,  caisson  covers,  wheels,  and  broken 
carriages.  These  soldiers  were,  no  doubt,  the  last 
comers  of  that  crowd  who,  from  the  base  of  the  hill  of 
Studzianka  to  the  fatal  river,  formed  an  ocean  of  heads 
intermingled  with  fires  and  huts,  —  a  living  sea,  swayed 
by  motions  that  were  almost  imperceptible,  and  giving 
forth  a  murmuring  sound  that  rose  at  times  to  frightful 
outbursts.  Driven  by  famine  and  despair,  these  poor 
wretches  must  have  rifled  the  carriage  before  de  Sucy 
reached  it.  The  old  general  and  his  young  wife,  whom 
he  had  left  in  it  lying  on  piles  of  clothes  and  wrapped 


Adieu.  109 

in  mantles  and  pelisses,  were  now  on  the  snow,  crouch- 
ing before  the  fire.  One  door  of  the  carriage  was 
already  torn  off. 

No  sooner  did  the  men  about  the  fire  hear  the  tread 
of  the  major's  horse  than  a  hoarse  cry,  the  cry  of  famine, 
arose, — 

"  A  horse  !  a  horse  !  " 

Those  voices  formed  but  one  voice. 

M  Back  !  back  !  look  out  for  yourself !  "  cried  two  or 
three  soldiers,  aiming  at  the  mare.  Philippe  threw  him- 
self before  his  animal,  crying  out,  — 

"  You  villains!  I'll  throw  you  into  }Tour  own  fire. 
There  are  plenty  of  dead  horses  up  there.  Go  and 
fetch  them." 

"  Is  n't  he  a  joker,  that  officer!  One,  two  —  get  out 
of  the  way,"  cried  a  colossal  grenadier.  "  No,  you 
won't,  hey  !     Well,  as  you  please,  then,," 

A  woman's  cry  rose  higher  than  the  report  of  the 
musket.  Philippe  fortunately  was  not  touched,  but 
Bichette,  mortally  wounded,  was  struggling  in  the 
throes  of  death.  Three  men  darted  forward  and  dis- 
patched her  with  their  ba}Tonets. 

"  Cannibals  !  "  cried  Philippe,  "  let  me  at  any  rate 
take  the  horse-cloth  and  my  pistols." 

"Pistols,  yes,"  replied  the  grenadier.  "But  as  for 
that  horse-cloth,  no !  here  *s  a  poor  fellow  afoot,  with 
nothing  in  his  stomach  for  two  days,  and  shivering  in 
his  rags.     It  is  our  general." 

Philippe  kept  silence  as  he  looked  at  the  man,  whose 
boots  were  worn  out,  his  trousers  torn  in  a  dozen  places, 
while  nothing  but  a  ragged  fatigue-cap  covered  with 
ice  was  on  his  head.     He  hastened,  however,  to  take 


110  Adieu. 

his  pistols.  Five  men  dragged  the  mare  to  the  fire, 
and  cut  her  up  with  the  dexterity  of  a  Parisian  butcher. 
The  pieces  were  instantly  seized  and  flung  upon  the 
embers. 

The  major  went  up  to  the  young  woman,  who  had 
uttered  a  cry  on  recognizing  him.  He  found  her 
motionless,  seated  on  a  cushion  beside  the  fire.  She 
looked  at  him  silently,  without  smiling.  Philippe  then 
saw  the  soldier  to  whom  he  had  confided  the  carriage ; 
the  man  was  wounded.  Overcome  by  numbers,  he  had 
been  forced  to  yield  to  the  malingerers  who  attacked 
him  ;  and,  like  the  dog  who  defended  to  the  last  possi- 
ble moment  his  master's  dinner,  he  had  taken  his  share 
of  the  booty,  and  was  now  sitting  beside  the  fire, 
wrapped  in  a  white  sheet  by  way  of  cloak,  and  turning 
carefully  on  the  embers  a  slice  of  the  mare.  Philippe 
saw  upon  his  face  the  joy  these  preparations  gave  him. 
The  Comte  de  Vandieres,  who,  for  the  last  few  days, 
had  fallen  into  a  state  of  second  childhood,  was  seated 
on  a  cushion  beside  his  wife,  looking  fixedly  at  the  fire, 
which  was  beginning  to  thaw  his  torpid  limbs.  He 
had  shown  no  emotion  of  any  kind,  either  at  Philippe's 
danger,  or  at  the  fight  which  ended  in  the  pillage  of  the 
carriage  and  their  expulsion  from  it. 

At  first  de  Sucy  took  the  hand  of  the  young  countess, 
as  if  to  show  her  his  affection,  and  the  grief  he  felt  at 
seeing  her  reduced  to  such  utter  misery ;  then  he  grew 
silent ;  seated  beside  her  on  a  heap  of  snow  which  was 
turning  into  a  rivulet  as  it  melted,  he  yielded  himself 
up  to  the  happiness  of  being  warm,  forgetting  their  peril, 
forgetting  all  things.  His  face  assumed,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, an  expression  of  almost  stupid  joy,  and  he  waited 


Adieu.  Ill 

with  impatience  till  the  fragment  of  the  mare  given  to 
his  orderly  was  cooked.  The  smell  of  the  roasting 
flesh  increased  his  hunger,  and  his  hunger  silenced  his 
heart,  his  courage,  and  his  love.  He  looked,  without 
anger,  at  the  results  of  the  pillage  of  his  carriage.  All 
the  men  seated  around  the  fire  had  shared  his  blankets, 
cushions,  pelisses,  robes,  also  the  clothing  of  the  Comte 
and  Comtesse  de  Vandieres  and  his  own.  Philippe 
looked  about  him  to  see  if  there  was  anything  left  in 
or  near  the  vehicle  that  was  worth  saving.  By  the 
light  of  the  flames  he  saw  gold  and  diamonds  and  plate 
scattered  everywhere,  no  one  having  thought  it  worth 
his  while  to  take  any. 

Each  of  the  individuals  collected  by  chance  around 
this  fire  maintained  a  silence  that  was  almost  horrible, 
and  did  nothing  but  what  he  judged  necessary  for 
his  own  welfare.  Their  misery  was  even  grotesque. 
Faces,  discolored  by  cold,  were  covered  with  a  layer 
of  mud,  on  which  tears  had  made  a  furrow  from  the 
eyes  to  the  beard,  showing  the  thickness  of  that  miry 
mask.  The  filth  of  their  long  beards  made  these  men 
still  more  repulsive.  Some  were  wrapped  in  the  coun- 
tess's shawls,  others  wore  the  trappings  of  horses  and 
muddy  saddlecloths,  or  masses  of  rags  from  which  the 
hoar-frost  hung;  some  had  a  boot  on  one  leg  and  a 
shoe  on  the  other ;  in  fact,  there  were  none  whose  cos- 
tume did  not  present  some  laughable  singularity.  But 
in  presence  of  such  amusing  sights  the  men  themselves 
were  grave  and  gloomy.  The  silence  was  broken  only 
by  the  snapping  of  the  wood,  the  crackling  of  the 
flames,  the  distant  murmur  of  the  camps,  and  the  blows 
of  the  sabre   given  to  what  remained  of  Bichette  in 


112  Adieu. 

search  of  her  tenderest  morsels.  A  few  miserable  crea- 
tures, perhaps  more  weary  than  the  rest,  were  sleeping  ; 
when  one  of  their  number  rolled  into  the  fire  no  one 
attempted  to  help  him  out.  These  stern  logicians 
argued  that  if  he  were  not  dead  his  burns  would  warn 
him  to  find  a  safer  place.  If  the  poor  wretch  waked  in 
the  flames  and  perished,  no  one  cared.  Two  or  three 
soldiers  looked  at  each  other  to  justify  their  own  in- 
difference by  that  of  others.  Twice  this  scene  had 
taken  place  before  the  eyes  of  the  countess,  who  said 
nothing.  When  the  various  pieces  of  Bichette,  placed 
here  and  there  upon  the  embers,  were  sufficiently 
broiled,  each  man  satisfied  his  hunger  with  the  gluttony 
that  disgusts  us  when  we  see  it  in  animals. 

u  This  is  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  thirty  infantry- 
men on  one  horse,"  cried  the  grenadier  who  had  shot 
the  mare. 

It  was  the  only  jest  made  that  night  which  proved 
the  national  character. 

Soon  the  great  number  of  these  poor  soldiers 
wrapped  themselves  in  what  they  could  find  and  lay 
down  on  planks,  or  whatever  would  keep  them  from 
contact  with  the  snow,  and  slept,  heedless  of  the 
morrow.  When  the  major  was  warm,  and  his  hunger 
appeased,  an  invincible  desire  to  sleep  weighed  down 
his  eyelids.  During  the  short  moment  of  his  struggle 
against  that  desire  he  looked  at  the  young  woman,  who 
had  turned  her  face  to  the  fire  and  was  now  asleep, 
leaving  her  closed  eyes  and  a  portion  of  her  fore- 
head exposed  to  sight.  She  was  wrapped  in  a  furred 
pelisse  and  a  heavy  dragoon's  cloak ;  her  head  rested 
on  a  pillow  stained  with  blood;  an  astrachan   hood, 


Adieu.  113 

kept  in  place  by  a  handkerchief  knotted  round  her 
neck,  preserved  her  face  from  the  cold  as  much  as 
possible.  Her  feet  were  wrapped  in  the  cloak.  Thus 
rolled  into  a  bundle,  as  it  were,  she  looked  like  nothing 
at  all.  Was  she  the  last  of  the  vivandieres?  Was  she 
a  charming  woman,  the  glory  of  a  lover,  the  queen 
of  Parisian  salons?  Alas!  even  the  eye  of  her  most 
devoted  friend  could  trace  no  sign  of  anything  femi- 
nine in  that  mass  of  rags  and  tatters.  Love  had  suc- 
cumbed to  cold  in  the  heart  of  a  woman  ! 

Through  the  thick  veils  of  irresistible  sleep,  the 
major  soon  saw  the  husband  and  wife  as  mere  points 
or  formless  objects.  The  flames  of  the  fire,  those  out- 
stretched figures,  the  relentless  cold,  waiting,  not  three 
feet  distant  from  that  fugitive  heat,  became  all  a 
dream.     One  importunate  thought  terrified  Philippe  : 

"  If  I  sleep,  we  shall  all  die;  1  will  not  sleep,"  he 
said  to  himself. 

And  yet  he  slept. 

A  terrible  clamor  and  an  explosion  awoke  him  an 
hour  later.  The  sense  of  his  duty,  the  peril  of  his 
friend,  fell  suddenly  on  his  heart.  He  uttered  a  cry 
that  was  like  a  roar.  He  and  his  orderly  were  alone 
afoot.  A  sea  of  fire  lay  before  them  in  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  licking  up  the  cabins  and  the  bivouacs ; 
cries  of  despair,  howls,  and  imprecations  reached  their 
ears  ;  they  saw  against  the  flames  thousands  of  human 
beings  with  agonized  or  furious  faces.  In  the  midst  of 
that  hell,  a  column  of  soldiers  was  forcing  its  way  to 
the  bridge,  between  two  hedges  of  dead  bodies. 

"It  is  the  retreat  of  the  rear-guard !  "  cried  the 
major.     "  All  hope  is  gone  !  " 

8 


114  Adieu. 

"I  have  saved  your  carriage,  Philippe,"  said  a 
friendly  voice. 

Turning  round,  de  Sucy  recognized  the  young  aide- 
de-camp  in  the  flaring  of  the  flames. 

"  Ah!  all  is  lost!"  replied  the  major,  "  they  have 
eaten  my  horse ;  and  how  can  I  make  this  stupid  gen- 
eral and  his  wife  walk?" 

"  Take  a  brand  from  the  fire  and  threaten  them." 

"  Threaten  the  countess  !  " 

"  Good-bye,"  said  the  aide-de-camp,  "  I  have  scarcely 
time  to  get  across  that  fatal  river  —  and  I  must ;  I 
have  a  mother  in  France.  What  a  night !  These  poor 
wretches  prefer  to  lie  here  in  the  snow ;  half  will  allow 
themselves  to  perish  in  those  flames  rather  than  rise 
and  move  on.  It  is  four  o'clock,  Philippe!  In  two 
hours  the  Russians  will  begin  to  move.  I  assure  you 
you  will  again  see  the  Beresina  choked  with  corpses. 
Philippe !  think  of  yourself !  You  have  no  horses,  you 
cannot  carry  the  countess  in  your  arms.  Come  — 
come  with  me !  "  he  said  urgently,  pulling  de  Sucy  by 
the  arm. 

"  My  friend!  abandon  Stephanie!  " 

De  Sucy  seized  the  countess,  made  her  stand  up- 
right, shook  her  with  the  roughness  of  a  despairing 
man,  and  compelled  her  to  wake  up.  She  looked  at 
him  with  fixed,  dead  eyes. 

"You  must  walk,  Stephanie,  or  we  shall  all  die 
here." 

For  all  answer  the  countess  tried  to  drop  again  upon 
the  snow  and  sleep.  The  aide-de-camp  seized  a  brand 
from  the  fire  and  waved  it  in  her  face. 

"  We  will  save  her  in  spite  of  herself!  "  cried  Phi- 


Adieu.  115 


lippe,  lifting  the   countess    and    placing    her   in    the 


carriage. 


He  returned  to  implore  the  help  of  his  friend.  To- 
gether they  lifted  the  old  general,  without  knowing 
whether  he  were  dead  or  alive,  and  put  him  beside  his 
wife.  The  major  then  rolled  over  the  men  who  were 
sleeping  on  his  blankets,  which  he  tossed  into  the  car- 
riage, together  with  some  roasted  fragments  of  his  mare. 

46  What  do  you  mean  to  do?"  asked  the  aide-de- 
camp. 

"  Dras;  them." 

"  You  are  crazy." 

"  True,"  said  Philippe,  crossing  his  arms  in  despair. 

Suddenly,  he  was  seized  by  a  last  despairing 
thought. 

"  To  you,"  he  said,  grasping  the  sound  arm  of  his 
orderly,  "  I  confide  her  for  one  hour.  Remember  that 
you  must  die  sooner  than  let  any  one  approach  her." 

The  major  then  snatched  up  the  countess's  diamonds, 
held  them  in  one  hand,  drew  his  sabre  with  the  other, 
and  began  to  strike  with  the  flat  of  its  blade  such  of  the 
sleepers  as  he  thought  the  most  intrepid.  He  succeeded 
in  awaking  the  colossal  grenadier,  and  two  other  men 
whose  rank  it  was  impossible  to  tell. 

"We  are  done  for !  "  he  said. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  the  grenadier,  "  but  I  don't  care." 

"Well,  death  for  death,  wouldn't  you  rather  sell 
your  life  for  a  pretty  woman,  and  take  your  chances  of 
seeing  France  ?  " 

"  I  'd  rather  sleep,"  said  a  man,  rolling  over  on  the 
snow,  "and  if  you  trouble  me  again,  I'll  stick  my 
bayonet  into  your  stomach.' 


>» 


116  Adieu. 

"  What  is  the  business,  my  colonel?  "  said  the  gren- 
adier. "  That  man  is  drunk ;  he  's  a  Parisian  ;  he  likes 
his  ease." 

"That  is  yours,  my  brave  grenadier,"  cried  the 
major,  offering  him  a  string  of  diamonds,  "  if  you  will 
follow  me  and  fight  like  a  madman.  The  Russians 
are  ten  minutes'  march  from  here  ;  they  have  horses ; 
we  are  going  up  to  their  first  battery  for  a  pair." 

"  But  the  sentinels?" 

"One  of  us  three  —  "he  interrupted  himself,  and 
turned  to  the  aide-de-camp.  "  You  will  come,  Hippo- 
lyte,  won't  you?  " 

Hippolyte  nodded. 

"One  of  us,"  continued  the  major,  "  will  take  care 
of  the  sentinel.  Besides,  perhaps  they  are  asleep  too, 
those  cursed  Russians." 

"  Forward  !  major,  you  're  a  brave  one  !  But  you  '11 
give  me  a  lift  on  your  carriage?  "  said  the  grenadier. 

"Yes,  if  you  don't  leave  your  skin  up  there —  If  I 
fall,  Hippolyte,  and  you,  grenadier,  promise  me  to  do 
your  utmost  to  save  the  countess." 

"  Agreed !  "  cried  the  grenadier. 

They  started  for  the  Russian  lines,  toward  one 
of  the  batteries  which  had  so  decimated  the  hapless 
wretches  lying  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  A  few  mo- 
ments later,  the  gallop  of  two  horses  echoed  over  the 
snow,  and  the  wakened  artillery  men  poured  out  a 
volley  which  ranged  above  the  heads  of  the  sleeping 
men.  The  pace  of  the  horses  was  so  fleet  that  their 
steps  resounded  like  the  blows  of  a  blacksmith  on  his 
anvil.  The  generous  aide-de-camp  was  killed.  The 
athletic  grenadier  was  safe    and  sound.      Philippe  in 


Adieu.  117 

defending  Hippolyte  had  received  a  bayonet  in  his 
shoulder;  but  he  clung  to  his  horse's  mane,  and  clasped 
him  so  tightly  with  his  knees  that  the  animal  was  held 
as  in  a  vice. 

"  God  be  praised !  "  cried  the  major,  finding  his 
orderly  untouched  and  the  carriage  in  its  place. 

"  If  you  are  just,  my  officer,  you  will  get  me  the 
cross  for  this,"  said  the  man.  "  We've  played  a  fine 
game  of  guns  and  sabres  here,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  We  have  done  nothing  yet  —  Harness  the  horses. 
Take  these  ropes." 

"  They  are  not  long  enough." 

"Grenadier,  turn  over  those  sleepers,  and  take  their 
shawls  and  linen,  to  eke  out." 

"  Tiens!  that's  one  dead,"  said  the  grenadier,  strip- 
ping the  first  man  he  came  to.     "Bless  me!  what  a 
joke,  they  are  all  dead  !  " 
'     "All?" 

"  Yes,  all;  seems  as  if  horse-meat  must  De  indigesti- 
ble if  eaten  with  snow." 

The  words   made  Philippe  tremble.     The  cold   was 


increasing. 


"  My  God  !  to  lose  the  woman  I  have  saved  a  dozen 
times !  " 

The  major  shook  the  countess. 

"  Stephanie  !  Stephanie  !  " 

The  young  woman  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Madame  !  we  are  saved." 

4 '  Saved  !  "  she  repeated,  sinking  down  again. 

The  horses  were  harnessed  as  best  they  could.  The 
major,  holding  his  sabre  in  his  well  hand,  with  his  pis- 
tols in  his  belt,  gathered  up  the  reins  with  the  other  hand 


118  Adieu. 

and  mounted  one  horse  while  the  grenadier  mounted  the 
other.  The  orderly,  whose  feet  were  frozen,  was  thrown 
inside  the  carriage,  across  the  general  and  the  countess. 
Excited  by  pricks  from  a  sabre,  the  horses  drew  the 
carriage  rapidly,  with  a  sort  of  fury,  to  the  plain,  where 
innumerable  obstacles  awaited  it.  It  was  impossible 
to  force  a  way  without  danger  of  crushing  the  sleeping 
men,  women,  and  even  children,  who  refused  to  move 
when  the  grenadier  awoke  them.  In  vain  did  Monsieur 
de  Sucy  endeavor  to  find  the  swathe  cut  by  the  passage 
of  the  rear-guard  through  the  mass  of  human  beings ; 
it  was  already  obliterated,  like  the  wake  of  a  vessel 
through  the  sea.  They  could  only  creep  along,  being 
often  stopped  by  soldiers  who  threatened  to  kill  their 
horses. 

"  Do  you  want  to  reach  the  bridge?  "  said  the  gren- 
adier. 

"  At  the  cost  of  my  life  —  at  the  cost  of  the  whole 
world !  " 

"Then  forward,  march!  you  can't  make  omelets 
without  breaking  eggs." 

And  the  grenadier  of  the  guard  urged  the  horses 
over  men  and  bivouacs  with  bloody  wheels  and  a  double 
line  of  corpses  on  either  side  of  them.  We  must  do 
him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  never  spared  his  breath 
in  shouting  in  stentorian  tones,  — 

"  Look  out  there,  carrion  !  " 

"Poor  wretches!  "  cried  the  major. 

'*  Pooh!  that  or  the  cold,  that  or  the  cannon,"  said 
the  grenadier,  prodding  the  horses,  and  urging  them 
on. 

A  catastrophe,  which  might  well  have  happened  to 


Adieu.  119 

them  much  sooner,  put  a  stop  to  their  advance.  The 
carriage  was  overturned. 

"I  expected  it,"  cried  the  imperturbable  grenadier. 
"  Ho  !  ho  !  your  man  is  dead." 

"  Poor  Laurent!  "  said  the  major. 

"  Laurent?     Was  he  in  the  5th  chasseurs?  " 

"  Yes." 

44  Then  he  was  my  cousin.  Oh,  well,  this  dog's  life 
is  n't  happy  enough  to  waste  any  joy  in  grieving  for 
him." 

The  carriage  could  not  be  raised ;  the  horses  were 
taken  out  with  serious  and,  as  it  proved,  irreparable 
loss  of  time.  The  shock  of  the  overturn  was  so  violent 
that  the  young  countess,  roused  from  her  lethargy, 
threw  off  her  coverings  and  rose. 

"Philippe,  where  are  we?"  she  cried  in  a  gentle 
voice,  looking  about  her. 

"  Only  five  hundred  feet  from  the  bridge.  We  are 
now  going  to  cross  the  Beresina,  Stephanie,  and  once 
across  I  will  not  torment  you  any  more ;  you  shall 
sleep ;  we  shall  be  in  safety,  and  can  reach  Wilna 
easily.  —  God  grant  that  she  may  never  know  what 
her  life  has  cost !  "  he  thought. 

"  Philippe  !  you  are  wounded!  " 

"  That  is  nothing." 

Too  late !  the  fatal  hour  had  come.  The  Russian 
cannon  sounded  the  reveille.  Masters  of  Studzianka, 
they  could  sweep  the  plain,  and  by  daylight  the  major 
could  see  two  of  their  columns  moving  and  forming  on 
the  heights.  A  cry  of  alarm  arose  from  the  multitude, 
who  started  to  their  feet  in  an  instant.  Every  man 
now  understood  his  danger  instinctively,  and  the  whole 


120  Adieu. 

mass  rushed  to  gain  the  bridge  with  the  motion  of  a 
wave. 

The  Russians  came  down  with  the  rapidity  of  a  con- 
flagration. Men,  women,  children,  horses,  —  all  rushed 
tumultuously  to  the  bridge.  Fortunately  the  major, 
who  was  carrying  the  countess,  was  still  at  some  dis- 
tance from  it.  General  Eble  had  just  set  fire  to  the 
supports  on  the  other  bank.  In  spite  of  the  warnings 
shouted  to  those  who  were  rushing  upon  the  bridge, 
not  a  soul  went  back.  Not  only__did  the  bridge  go 
down  crowded  with  human  beings,. but  the  impetuosity 
of  that  flood  of  men  toward  the  fatal  bank  was  so 
furious  that  a  mass  of  humanity  poured  itself  violently 
into  the  river  like  an  avalanche.  Not  a  cry  was  heard  ; 
the  only  sound  was  like  the  dropping  of  monstrous 
stones  into  the  water.  Then  the  Beresina  was  a  mass 
of  floating  corpses. 

The  retrograde  movement  of  those  who  now  fell 
back  into  the  plain  to  escape  the  death  before  them 
was  so  violent,  and  their  concussion  against  those  who 
were  advancing  from  the  rear  so  terrible,  that  numbers 
were  smothered  or  trampled  to  death.  The  Comte 
and  Comtesse  de  Vandieres  owed  their  lives  to  their 
carriage,  behind  which  Philippe  forced  them,  using  it  as 
a  breastwork.  As  for  the  major  and  the  grenadier, 
they  found  their  safety  in  their  strength.  They  killed 
to  escape  being  killed. 

This  hurricane  of  human  beings,  the  flux  and  reflux 
of  living  bodies,  had  the  effect  of  leaving  for  a  few 
short  moments  the  whole  bank  of  the  Beresina  de- 
serted. The  multitude  were  surging  to  the  plain.  If 
a  few  men  rushed  to  the  river,  it  was  less  in  the  hope 


Adieu.  121 

of  reaching  the  other  bank,  which  to  them  was  France, 
than  to  rush  from  the  horrors  of  Siberia.  Despair 
proved  an  aegis  to  some  bold  hearts.  One  officer 
sprang  from  ice-cake  to  ice-cake,  and  reached  the  op- 
posite shore.  A  soldier  clambered  miraculously  over 
mounds  of  dead  bodies  and  heaps  of  ice.  The  multi- 
tude finally  comprehended  that  the  Russians  would  not 
put  to  death  a  body  of  twenty  thousand  men,  without 
arms,  torpid,  stupid,  unable  to  defend  themselves  ;  and 
each  man  awaited  his  fate  with  horrible  resignation. 
Then  the  major  and  the  grenadier,  the  general  and  his 
wife,  remained  almost  alone  on  the  river  bank,  a  few 
steps  from  the  spot  where  the  bridge  had  been.  They 
stood  there,  with  dry  eyes,  silent,  surrounded  by  heaps 
of  dead.  A  few  sound  soldiers,  a  few  officers  to  whom 
the  emergency  had  restored  their  natural  energy,  were 
near  them.  This  group  consisted  of  some  fifty  men  in 
all.  The  major  noticed  at  a  distance  of  some  two 
hundred  yards  the  remains  of  another  bridge  intended 
for  carriages  and  destroyed  the  day  before. 

"  Let  us  make  a  raft !  "  he  cried. 

He  had  hardly  uttered  the  words  before  the  whole 
group  rushed  to  the  ruins,  and  began  to  pick  up  iron 
bolts,  and  screws,  and  pieces  of  wood  and  ropes,  what- 
ever materials  they  could  find  that  were  suitable  for 
the  construction  of  a  raft.  A  score  of  soldiers  and 
officers,  who  were  armed,  formed  a  guard,  commanded 
by  the  major,  to  protect  the  workers  against  the  des- 
perate attacks  which  might  be  expected  from  the 
crowd,  if  their  scheme  was  discovered.  The  instinct 
of  freedom,  strong  in  all  prisoners,  inspiring  them  to 
miraculous  acts,  can  only  be  compared  with  that  which 
now  drove  to  action  these  unfortunate  Frenchmen. 


122  Adieu. 

"The  Russians!  the  Russians  are  coming!"  cried 
the  defenders  to  the  workers ;  and  the  work  went  on, 
the  raft  increased  in  length  and  breadth  and  depth. 
Generals,  soldiers,  colonel,  all  put  their  shoulders  to 
the  wheel ;  it  was  a  true  image  of  the  building  of 
Noah's  ark.  The  young  countess,  seated  beside  her 
husband,  watched  the  progress  of  the  work  with  regret 
that  she  could  not  help  it ;  and  yet  she  did  assist  in 
making  knots  to  secure  the  cordage. 

At  last  the  raft  was  finished.  Forty  men  launched 
it  on  the  river,  a  dozen  others  holding  the  cords  which 
moored  it  to  the  shore.  But  no  sooner  had  the  builders 
seen  their  handy-work  afloat,  than  they  sprang  from 
the  bank  with  odious  selfishness.  The  major,  fearing 
the  fury  of  this  first  rush,  held  back  the  countess  and 
the  general,  but  too  late  he  saw  the  whole  raft  covered, 
men  pressing  together  like  crowds  at  a  theatre. 

"  Savages! '  he  cried,  "  it  was  I  who  gave  you  the 
idea  of  that  raft.  I  have  saved  you,  and  you  deny  me 
a  place." 

A  confused  murmur  answered  him.  The  men  at  the 
edge  of  the  raft,  armed  with  long  sticks,  pressed  with 
violence  against  the  shore  to  send  off  the  frail  con- 
struction with  sufficient  impetus  to  force  its  way 
through  corpses  and  ice-floes  to  the  other  shore. 

"  Thunder  of  heaven  !  I  '11  sweep  you  into  the  water 
if  you  don't  take  the  major  and  his  two  companions," 
cried  the  stalwart  grenadier,  who  swung  his  sabre, 
stopped  the  departure,  and  forced  the  men  to  stand 
closer  in  spite  of  furious  outcries. 

"I  shall  fall,"— "I  am  falling,"  —  "  Push  off! 
push  off !  —  Forward  !  "  resounded  on  all  sides. 


Adieu.  123 

The  major  looked  with  haggard  eyes  at  Stephanie, 
who  lifted  hers  to  heaven  with  a  feeling  of  sublime 
resignation. 

"  To  die  with  thee  !  "  she  said. 

There  was  something  even  comical  in  the  position  of 
the  men  in  possession  of  the  raft.  Though  they  were 
uttering  awful  groans  and  imprecations,  they  dared 
not  resist  the  grenadier,  for  in  truth  they  were  so 
closely  packed  together,  that  a  push  to  one  man  might 
send  half  of  them  overboard.  This  danger  was  so 
pressing  that  a  cavalry  captain  endeavored  to  get  rid  of 
the  grenadier ;  but  the  latter,  seeing  the  hostile  move- 
ment of  the  officer,  seized  him  round  the  waist  and 
flung  him  into  the  water,  crying  out,  — 

"  Ha  !  ha!  my  duck,  do  you  want  to  drink?  Well, 
then,  drink  !  —  Here  are  two  places,"  he  cried.  "  Come, 
major,  toss  me  the  little  woman  and  follow  yourself. 
Leave  that  old  fossil,  who  '11  be  dead  by  to-morrow." 

"  Make  haste !  "  cried  the  voice  of  all,  as  one  man. 

"Come,  major,  they  are  grumbling,  and  they  have 
a  right  to  do  so." 

The  Comte  de  Vandieres  threw  off  his  wrappings 
and  showed  himself  in  his  general's  uniform. 

"  Let  us  save  the  count,"  said  Philippe. 

Stephanie  pressed  his  hand,  and  throwing  herself  on 
his  breast,  she  clasped  him  tightly. 

"  Adieu  !  "  she  said. 

They  had  understood  each  other. 

The  Comte  de  Vandieres  recovered  sufficient  strength 
and  presence  of  mind  to  spring  upon  the  raft,  whither 
Stephanie  followed  him,  after  turning  a  last  look  to 
Philippe. 


1 


124  Adieu, 

"Major!  will  you  take  my  place?  I  don't  care  a 
fig  for  life,"  cried  the  grenadier.  "I've  neither  wife 
nor  child  nor  mother." 

"I  confide  them  to  your  care,"  said  the  major, 
pointing  to  the  count  and  his  wife. 

"  Then  be  easy;  I  '11  care  for  them,  as  though  they 
were  my  very  eyes." 

The  raft  was  now  sent  off  with  so  much  violence 
toward  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  that  as  it  touched 
ground,  the  shock  was  felt  by  all.  The  count,  who 
was  at  the  edge  of  it,  lost  his  balance  and  fell  into  the 
river ;  as  he  fell,  a  cake  of  sharp  ice  caught  him,  and 
cut  off  his  head,  flinging  it  to  a  great  distance. 

u  See  there  !  major !  "  cried  the  grenadier. 

"  Adieu  !  "  said  a  woman's  voice. 

Philippe  de  Sucy  fell  to  the  ground,  overcome  with 
horror  and  fatigue. 


Adieu.  125 


III. 


,  THE    CURE. 

"  My  poor  niece  became  insane,"  continued  the  phy- 
sician, after  a  few  moments'  silence.  "  Ah  !  monsieur," 
he  said,  seizing  the  marquis's  hand,  "life  has  been 
awful  indeed  for  that  poor  little  woman,  so  young,  so 
delicate !  After  being,  by  dreadful  fatality,  separated 
from  the  grenadier,  whose  name  was  Fleuriot,  she  was 
dragged  about  for  two  years  at  the  heels  of  the  army, 
the  plaything  of  a  crowd  of  wretches.  She  was  often, 
they  tell  me,  barefooted,  and  scarcely  clothed ;  for 
months  together,  she  had  no  care,  no  food  but  what 
she  could  pick  up ;  sometimes  kept  in  hospitals,  some- 
times driven  away  like  an  animal,  God  alone  knows 
the  horrors  that  poor  unfortunate  creature  has  survived. 
She  was  locked  up  in  a  madhouse,  in  a  little  town  in 
Germany,  at  the  time  her  relatives,  thinking  her  dead, 
divided  her  property.  In  1816,  the  grenadier  Fleuriot 
was  at  an  inn  in  Strasburg,  where  she  went  after  making 
her  escape  from  the  madhouse.  Several  peasants  told 
the  grenadier  that  she  had  lived  for  a  whole  month  in 
the  forest,  where  they  had  tracked  her  in  vain,  trying 
to  catch  her,  but  she  had  always  escaped  them.  I  was 
then  sta}7ing  a  few  miles  from  Strasburg.  Hearing 
much  tolk  of  a  wild  woman  caught  in  the  woods,  I  felt 
a  desire  to  ascertain  the  truth  of  the  ridiculous  stories 


126  Adieu. 

which  were  current  about  her.  What  were  my  feel- 
ings on  beholding  my  own  niece !  Fleuriot  told  me  all 
he  knew  of  her  dreadful  history.  I  took  the  poor  man 
with  my  niece  to  my  home  in  Auvergne,  where,  unfortu- 
nately, I  lost  him  some  months  later.  He  had  some 
slight  control  over  Madame  de  Vandieres ;  he  alone 
could  induce  her  to  wear  clothing.  4  Adieu,'  that 
word,  which  is  her  only  language,  she  seldom  uttered 
at  that  time.  Fleuriot  had  endeavored  to  awaken  in 
her  a  few  ideas,  a  few  memories  of  the  past ;  but  he 
failed ;  all  that  he  gained  was  to  make  her  say  that 
melancholy  word  a  little  oftener.  Still,  the  grenadier 
knew  how  to  amuse  her  and  play  with  her ;  my  hope 
was  in  him,  but  —  " 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Here,"  he  continued,  "she  has  found  another 
creature,  with  whom  she  seems  to  have  some  strange 
understanding.  It  is  a  poor  idiotic  peasant-girl,  who, 
in  spite  of  her  ugliness  and  stupidity,  loved  a  man,  a 
mason.  The  mason  was  willing,  to  marry  her,  as  she 
had  some  property.  Poor  Genevieve  was  happy  for  a 
year ;  she  dressed  in  her  best  to  dance  with  her  lover 
on  Sunday ;  she  comprehended  love ;  in  her  heart  and 
soul  there  was  room  for  that  one  sentiment.  But  the 
mason,  Dallot,  reflected.  He  found  a  girl  with  all  her 
senses,  and  more  land  than  Genevieve,  and  he  deserted 
the  poor  creature.  Since  then  she  has  lost  the  little 
intellect  that  love  developed  in  her ;  she  can  do  noth- 
ing but  watch  the  cows,  or  help  at  harvesting.  My 
niece  and  this  poor  girl  are  friends,  apparently  by 
some  invisible  chain  of  their  common  destiny,  by  the 
sentiment   in   each  which  has  caused  their  madness. 


Adieu.  127 

See  !  "  added  Stephanie's  uncle,  leading  the  marquis  to 
a  window. 

The  latter  then  saw  the  countess  seated  on  the 
ground  between  Genevieve's  legs.  The  peasant-girl, 
armed  with  a  huge  horn  comb,  was  giving  her  whole  at- 
tention to  the  work  of  disentangling  the  long  black  hair 
of  the  poor  countess,  who  was  uttering  little  stifled 
cries,  expressive  of  some  instinctive  sense  of  pleasure. 
Monsieur  d'Albon  shuddered  as  he  saw  the  utter  aban- 
donment of  the  body,  the  careless  animal  ease  which 
revealed  in  the  hapless  woman  a  total  absence  of  soul. 

"  Philippe,  Philippe!"  he  muttered,  "the  past 
horrors  are  nothing  !  —  Is  there  no  hope?  "  he  asked. 

The  old  physician  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

"  Adieu,  monsieur,"  said  the  marquis,  pressing  his 
hand.  "  My  friend  is  expecting  me.  He  will  soon 
come  to  you." 

il  Then  it  was  really  she!  "  cried  de  Sucy  at  d'Al- 
bon's  first  words.  "Ah!  I  still  doubted  it,"  he 
added,  a  few  tears  falling  from  his  eyes,  which  were 
habitually  stern. 

"  Yes,  it  is  the  Comtesse  de  Vandieres,"  replied  the 
marquis. 

The  colonel  rose  abruptly  from  his  bed  and  began  to 
dress. 

"  Philippe  !  "  cried  his  friend,  "  are  you  mad?  " 

"I  am  no  longer  ill,"  replied  the  colonel,  simply. 
"  This  news  has  quieted  my  suffering.  What  pain  can 
I  feel  when  I  think  of  Stephanie?  I  am  going  to  the 
Bons-Hommes,  to  see  her,  speak  to  her,  cure  her. 
She  is  free.  Well,  happiness  will  smile  upon  us  —  or 
Providence  is  not  in  this  world.     Think  you  that  that 


128  Adieu. 

poor  woman  conld  hear  my  voice  and  not  recover 
reason  ?  " 

"  She  has  already  seen  you  and  not  recognized  you," 
said  his  friend,  gently,  for  he  felt  the  danger  of 
Philippe's  excited  hopes,  and  tried  to  cast  a  salutary 
doubt  upon  them. 

The  colonel  quivered ;  then  he  smiled,  and  made  a 
motion  of  incredulity.  No  one  dared  to  oppose  his 
wish,  and  within  a  very  short  time  he  reached  the  old 
priory. 

"  Where  is  she?  "  he  cried,  on  arriving. 

"Hush!"  said  her  uncle,  "she  is  sleeping.  See, 
here  she  is." 

Philippe  then  saw  the  poor  insane  creature  lying  on 
a  bench  in  the  sun.  Her  head  was  protected  from  the 
heat  by  a  forest  of  hair  which  fell  in  tangled  locks 
over  her  face.  Her  arms  hung  gracefully  to  the 
ground  ;  her  body  lay  easily  posed  like  that  of  a  doe ; 
her  feet  were  folded  under  her  without  effort ;  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell  at  regular  intervals ;  her  skin,  her 
complexion,  had  that  porcelain  whiteness,  which  we 
admire  so  much  in  the  clear  transparent  faces  of  chil- 
dren. Standing  motionless  beside  her,  Genevieve  held 
in  her  hand  a  branch  which  Stephanie  had  doubtless 
climbed  a  tall  poplar  to  obtain,  and  the  poor  idiot  was 
gently  waving  it  above  her  sleeping  companion,  to 
chase  away  the  flies  and  cool  the  atmosphere. 

The  peasant  woman  gazed  at  Monsieur  Fanjat  and 
the  colonel ;  then,  like  an  animal  which  recognizes  its 
master,  she  turned  her  head  slowly  to  the  countess, 
and  continued  to  watch  her,  without  giving  any  sign 
of  surprise  or  intelligence.     The  air  was  stifling ;  the 


Adieu.  1 29 

stone  bench  glittered  in  the  sunlight ;  the  meadow  ex- 
haled to  heaven  those  impish  vapors  which  dance  and 
dart  above  the  herbage  like  silvery  dust;  but  Gen- 
evieve seemed  not  to  feel  this  all-consuming  heat. 

The  colonel  pressed  the  hand  of  the  doctor  violently 
in  his  own.  Tears  rolled  from  his  eyes  along  his 
manly  cheeks,  and  fell  to  earth  at  the  feet  of  his 
Stephanie. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  uncle,  "  for  two  years  past, 
my  heart  is  broken  day  by  day.  Soon  you  will  be  like 
me.  You  may  not  always  weep,  but  you  will  always 
feel  your  sorrow." 

The  two  men  understood  each  other ;  and  again, 
pressing  each  other's  hands,  they  remained  motionless, 
contemplating  the  exquisite  calmness  which  sleep  had 
cast  upon  that  graceful  creature.  From  time  to  time 
she  gave  a  sigh,  and  that  sigh,  which  had  all  the  sem- 
blance of  sensibilities,  made  the  unhappy  colonel  trem- 
ble with  hope. 

"Alas!"  said  Monsieur  Fanjat,  "do  not  deceive 
yourself,  monsieur ;  there  is  no  meaning  in  her  sigh." 

Those  who  have  ever  watched  for  hours  with  delight 
the  sleep  of  one  who  is  tenderly  beloved,  whose  eyes 
will  smile  to  them  at  waking,  can  understand  the  sweet 
yet  terrible  emotion  that  shook  the  colonel's  soul.  To 
him,  this  sleep  was  an  illusion ;  the  waking  might  be 
death,  death  in  its  most  awful  form.  Suddenly,  a  lit- 
tle goat  jumped  in  three  bounds  to  the  bench,  and 
smelt  at  Stephanie,  who  waked  at  the  sound.  She 
sprang  to  her  feet,  but  so  lightly  that  the  movement  did 
not  frighten  the  freakish  animal ;  then  she  caught  sight 
of  Philippe,  and  darted  away,  followed  by  her  four-footed 

9 


130  Adieu. 

friend,  to  a  hedge  of  elders ;  there  she  uttered  the 
same  little  cry  like  a  frightened  bird,  which  the  two 
men  had  heard  near  the  other  gate.  Then  she  climbed 
an  acacia,  and  nestling  into  its  tufted  top,  she  watched 
the  stranger  with  the  inquisitive  attention  of  the  forest 
birds. 

4 'Adieu,  adieu,  adieu,"  she  said,  without  the  soul 
communicating  one  single  intelligent  inflexion  to  the 
word. 

It  was  uttered  impassively,  as  the  bird  sings  his 
note. 

"  She  does  not  recognize  me!  "  cried  the  colonel,  in 
despair.  "Stephanie!  it  is  Philippe,  thy  Philippe, 
Pldlippe !  " 

And  the  poor  soldier  went  to  the  acacia ;  but  when 
he  was  a  few  steps  from  it,  the  countess  looked  at 
him,  as  if  defying  him,  although  a  slight  expression  of 
fear  seemed  to  flicker  in  her  eye ;  then,  with  a  single 
bound  she  sprang  from  the  acacia  to  a  laburnum,  and 
thence  to  a  Norway  fir,  where  she  darted  from  branch 
to  branch  with  extraordinary  agility. 

"  Do  not  pursue  her,"  said  Monsieur  Fanjat  to  the 
colonel,  "  or  you  will  rouse  an  aversion  which  might 
become  insurmountable.  I  will  help  }tou  to  tame  her 
and  make  her  come  to  you.  Let  us  sit  on  this  bench. 
If  you  pay  no  attention  to  her,  she  will  come  of  her 
own  accord  to  examine  you." 

"She/  not  to  know  me!  to  flee  me!  "  repeated  the 
colonel,  seating  himself  on  a  bench  with  his  back  to  a 
tree  that  shaded  it,  and  letting  his  head  fall  upon  his 
breast. 

The  doctor  said  nothing.     Presently,  the  countess 


Adieu.  131 

came  gently  down  the  fir-tree,  letting  herself  swing 
easily  on  the  branches,  as  the  wind  swayed  them.  At 
each  branch  she  stopped  to  examine  the  stranger ;  but 
seeing  him  motionless,  she  at  last  sprang  to  the  ground 
and  came  slowly  towards  him  across  the  grass.  When 
she  reached  a  tree  about  ten  feet  distant,  against  which 
she  leaned,  Monsieur  Fanjat  said  to  the  colonel  in  a 
low  voice,  — 

"Take  out,  adroitly,  from  my  right  hand  pocket 
some  lumps  of  sugar  you  will  feel  there.  Show  them 
to  her,  and  she  will  come  to  us.  I  will  renounce  in 
your  favor  my  sole  means  of  giving  her  pleasure. 
With  sugar,  which  she  passionately  loves,  you  will  ac- 
custom her  to  approach  you,  and  to  know  you  again." 

"When  she  was  a  woman,"  said  Philippe,  sadly, 
"  she  had  no  taste  whatever  for  sweet  things." 

When  the  colonel  showed  her  the  lump  of  sugar, 
holding  it  between  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  his 
right  hand,  she  again  uttered  her  little  wild  cry,  and 
sprang  toward  him ;  then  she  stopped,  struggling 
against  the  instinctive  fear  he  caused  her ;  she  looked 
at  the  sugar  and  turned  away  her  head  alternately, 
precisely  like  a  dog  whose  master  forbids  him  to  touch 
his  food  until  he  has  said  a  letter  of  the  alphabet  which 
he  slowly  repeats.  At  last  the  animal  desire  triumphed 
over  fear.  Stephanie  darted  to  Philippe,  cautiously 
putting  out  her  little  brown  hand  to  seize  the  prize, 
touched  the  fingers  of  her  poor  lover  as  she  suatched 
the  sugar,  and  fled  away  among  the  trees.  This  dread- 
ful scene  overcame  the  colonel ;  he  burst  into  tears  and 
rushed  into  the  house. 

"Has  love  less  courage  than  friendship  ?  "     Monsieur 


132  Adieu. 

Fanjat  said  to  him.  "  I  have  some  hope,  Monsieur  le 
baron.  My  poor  niece  was  in  a  far  worse  state  than 
that  in  which  you  now  find  her." 

"  How  was  that  possible?  "  cried  Philippe. 

"  She  went  naked,"  replied  the  doctor. 

The  colonel  made  a  gesture  of  horror  and  turned  pale. 
The  doctor  saw  in  that  sudden  pallor  alarming  symp- 
toms ;  he  felt  the  colonel's  pulse,  found  him  in  a  vio- 
lent fever,  and  half  persuaded,  half  compelled  him  to 
go  to  bed.  Then  he  gave  him  a  dose  of  opium  to 
ensure  a  calm  sleep. 

Eight  days  elapsed,  during  which  Colonel  de  Sucy 
struggled  against  mortal  agony ;  tears  no  longer  came 
to  his  eyes.  His  soul,  often  lacerated,  could  not  har- 
den itself  to  the  sight  of  Stephanie's  insanity ;  but  he 
covenanted,  so  to  speak,  with  his  cruel  situation,  aud 
found  some  assuaging  of  his  sorrow.  He  had  the 
courage  to  slowly  tame  the  countess  by  bringing  her 
sweetmeats;  he  took  such  pains  in  choosing  them,  and 
he  learned  so  well  how  to  keep  the  little  conquests  he 
sought  to  make  upon  her  instincts  —  that  last  shred  of 
her  intellect  —  that  he  ended  by  making  her  much 
tamer  than  she  had  ever  been. 

Every  morning  he  went  into  the  park,  and  if,  after 
searching  for  her  long,  he  could  not  discover  on  what 
tree  she  was  swaying,  nor  the  covert  in  which  she 
crouched  to  play  with  a  bird,  nor  the  roof  on  which 
she  might  have  clambered,  he  would  whistle  the  well- 
known  air  of  "  Partant  pour  la  Syrie,"  to  which  some 
tender  memory  of  their  love  attached.  Instantly, 
Stephanie  would  run  to  him  with  the  lightness  of  a 
fawn.     She  was  now  so  accustomed  to  see  him,  that 


Adieu.  133 

he  frightened  her  no  longer.  Soon  she  was  willing 
to  sit  upon  his  knee,  and  clasp  him  closely  with  her 
thin  and  agile  arm.  In  that  attitude  —  so  dear  to 
lovers !  —  Philippe  would  feed  her  with  sugarplums. 
Then,  having  eaten  those  that  he  gave  her,  she  would 
often  search  his  pockets  with  gestures  that  had  all  the 
mechanical  velocity  of  a  monkey's  motions.  When  she 
was  very  sure  there  was  nothing  more,  she  looked  at 
Philippe  with  clear  eyes,  without  ideas,  without  recog- 
nition. Then  she  would  play  with  him,  trying  at  times 
to  take  off  his  boots  to  see  his  feet,  tearing  his  gloves, 
putting  on  his  hat ;  she  would  even  let  him  pass  his 
hands  through  her  hair,  and  take  her  in  his  arms ;  she 
accepted,  but  without  pleasure,  his  ardent  kisses.  She 
would  look  at  him  silently,  without  emotion,  when  his 
tears  flowed;  but  she  always  understood  his  "  Par- 
tant  pour  la  Syrie,"  when  he  whistled  it,  though  he 
never  succeeded  in  teaching  her  to  say  her  own  name 
Stephanie. 

Philippe  was  sustained  in  his  agonizing  enterprise 
by  hope,  which  never  abandoned  him.  When,  on  fine 
autumn  mornings,  he  found  the  countess  sitting  peace- 
fully on  a  bench,  beneath  a  poplar  now  yellowing,  the 
poor  lover  would  sit  at  her  feet,  looking  into  her  eyes 
as  long  as  she  would  let  him,  hoping  ever  that  the  light 
that  was  in  them  would  become  intelligent.  Some- 
times the  thought  deluded  him  that  he  saw  those  hard 
immovable  rays  softening,  vibrating,  living,  and  he 
cried  out,  — 

"Stephanie!  Stephanie!  thou  nearest  me,  thou 
seest  me !  " 

But  she  listened  to  that  cry  as  to  a  noise,  the  sough- 


134  Adieu. 

ing  of  the  wind  in  the  tree-tops,  or  the  lowing  of  the 
cow  on  the  back  of  which  she  climbed.  Then  the 
colonel  would  wring  his  hands  in  despair,  —  despair 
that  was  new  each  day. 

One  evening,  under  a  calm  sky,  amid  the  silence  and 
peace  of  that  rural  haven,  the  doctor  saw,  from  a  dis- 
tance, that  the  colonel  was  loading  his  pistols.  The 
old  man  felt  then  that  the  young  man  had  ceased  to 
hope ;  he  felt  the  blood  rushing  to  his  heart,  and  if  he 
conquered  the  vertigo  that  threatened  him,  it  was  be- 
cause he  would  rather  see  his  niece  living  and  mad 
than  dead.     He  hastened  up. 

"  What  are  you  doing?"  he  said. 

"  That  is  for  me,"  replied  the  colonel,  pointing  to  a 
pistol  already  loaded,  which  was  lying  on  the  bench ; 
"  and  this  for  her,"  he  added,  as  he  forced  the  wad 
into  the  weapon  he  held. 

The  countess  was  lying  on  the  ground  beside  him, 
playing  with  the  balls. 

"  Then  you  do  not  know,"  said  the  doctor,  coldly, 
concealing  his  terror,  "  that  in  her  sleep  last  night  she 
called  you  :  Philippe  !  " 

"She  called  me!"  cried  the  baron,  dropping  his 
pistol,  which  Stephanie  picked  up.  He  took  it  from 
her  hastily,  caught  up  the  one  that  was  on  the  bench, 
and  rushed  away. 

"  Poor  darling!  "  said  the  doctor,  happy  in  the  suc- 
cess of  his  lie.  He  pressed  the  poor  creature  to  his 
breast,  and  continued  speaking  to  himself:  "He 
would  have  killed  thee,  selfish  man!  because  he  suf- 
fers. He  does  not  love  thee  for  thyself,  my  child ! 
But  we  forgive,  do  we  not?     He  is  mad,  out  of  his 


Adieu.  135 

senses,  but  thou  art  only  senseless.  No,  God  alone 
should  call  thee  to  Him.  We  think  thee  unhappy,  we 
pity  thee  because  thou  canst  not  share  our  sorrows, 
fools  that  we  are!  —  But,"  he  said,  sitting  down  and 
taking  her  on  his  knee,  "nothing  troubles  thee;  thy 
life  is  like  that  of  a  bird,  of  a  fawn  —  " 

As  he  spoke  she  darted  upou  a  young  blackbird 
which  was  hopping  near  them,  caught  it  with  a  little 
note  of  satisfaction,  strangled  it,  looked  at  it,  dead  in 
her  hand,  and  flung  it  down  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  with- 
out a  thought. 

The  next  day,  as  soon  as  it  was  light,  the  colonel 
came  down  into  the  gardens,  and  looked  about  for 
Stephanie,  —  he  believed  in  the  coming  happiness. 
Not  finding  her  he  whistled.  When  his  darling  came 
to  him,  he  took  her  on  his  arm  ;  they  walked  together 
thus  for  the  first  time,  and  he  led  her  within  a  group  of 
trees,  the  autumn  foliage  of  which  was  dropping  to  the 
breeze.  The  colonel  sat  down.  Of  her  own  accord 
Stephanie  placed  herself  on  his  knee.  Philippe  trem- 
bled with  joy. 

"  Love,"  he  said,  kissing  her  hands  passionately,  "  I 
am  Philippe." 

She  looked  at  him  with  curiosity. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  pressing  her  to  him,  "  dost  thou 
feel  my  heart?  It  has  beaten  for  thee  alone.  I  love 
thee  ever.  Philippe  is  not  dead  ;  he  is  not  dead,  thou 
art  on  him,  in  his  arms.  Thou  art  my  Stephanie  ;  I 
am  thy  Philippe." 

"  Adieu,"  she  said,  "  adieu." 

The  colonel  quivered,  for  he  fancied  he  saw  his  own 
excitement  communicated  to  his  mistress.     His  heart- 


136  Adieu. 

rending  cry,  drawn  from  him  by  despair,  that  last  effort 
of  an  eternal  love,  of  a  delirious  passion,  was  success- 
ful, the  mind  of  his  darling  was  awaking. 

"Ah!  Stephanie!  Stephanie!  we  shall  yet  be 
happy." 

She  gave  a  cry  of  satisfaction,  and  her  eyes  bright- 
ened with  a  flash  of  vague  intelligence. 

"  She  knows  me!  —  Stephanie!  " 

His  heart  swelled  ;  his  eyelids  were  jvet  with  tears. 
Then,  suddenly,  the  countess  showed  him  a  bit  of 
sugar  she  had  found  in  his  pocket  while  he  was  speak- 
ing to  her.  He  had  mistaken  for  human  thought  the 
amount  of  reason  required  for  a  monkey's  trick.  Phi- 
lippe dropped  to  the  ground  unconscious.  Monsieur 
Fanjat  found  the  countess  sitting  on  the  colonel's  body. 
She  was  biting  her  sugar,  and  testifying  her  pleasure  by 
pretty  gestures  and  affectations  with  which,  had  she  her 
reason,  she  might  have  imitated  her  parrot  or  her  cat. 

"Ah!  my  friend,"  said  Philippe,  when  he  came  to 
his  senses,  "  I  die  every  day,  every  moment!  I  love 
too  well !  I  could  still  bear  all,  if,  in  her  madness,  she 
had  kept  her  woman's  nature.  But  to  see  her  always 
a  savage,  devoid  even  of  modesty,  to  see  her  —  " 

"  You  want  opera  madness,  do  you?  something  pic- 
turesque and  pleasing,"  said  the  doctor,  bitterly. 
"  Your  love  and  }7our  devotion  yield  before  a  preju- 
dice. Monsieur,  I  have  deprived  myself  for  your  sake 
of  the  sad  happiness  of  watching  over  my  niece ;  I 
have  left  to  you  the  pleasure  of  playing  with  her ;  I 
have  kept  for  myself  the  heaviest  cares.  While  you 
have  slept,  I  have  watched,  I  have  —  Go,  monsieur, 
go  !  abandon  her !  leave  this  sad  refuge.     I  know  how 


Adieu.  137 

to  live  with  that  dear  darling  creature  ;  I  comprehend 
her  madness,  I  watch  her  gestures,  I  know  her  secrets. 
Some  day  you  will  thank  me  for  thus  sending  you 
away." 

The  colonel  left  the  old  monastery,  never  to  return 
but  once.  The  doctor  was  horrified  when  he  saw  the 
effect  he  had  produced  upon  his  guest,  whom  he  now 
began  to  love  when  he  saw  him  thus.  Surely,  if  either 
of  the  two  lovd'S  were  worthy  of  pity,  it  was  Philippe ; 
did  he  not  bear  alone  the  burden  of  their  dreadful 
sorrow  ? 

After  the  colonel's  departure  the  doctor  kept  him- 
self informed  about  him  ;  he  learned  that  the  miserable 
man  was  living  on  an  estate  he  possessed  near  Saint- 
Germain.  In  truth,  the  baron,  on  the  faith  of  a 
dream,  had  formed  a  project  which  he  believed  would 
yet  restore  the  mind  of  his  darling.  Unknown  to  the 
doctor,  he  spent  the  rest  of  the  autumn  in  preparing 
for  his  enterprise.  A  little  river  flowed  through  his 
park  and  inundated  during  the  winter  the  marshes  on 
either  side  of  it,  giving  it  some  resemblance  to  the 
Beresina.  The  village  of  Satout,  on  the  heights  above, 
closed  in,  like  Studzianka,  the  scene  of  horror.  The 
colonel  collected  workmen  to  deepen  the  banks,  and 
by  the  help  of  his  memory,  he  copied  in  his  park  the 
shore  where  General  Eble  destroyed  the  bridge.  He 
planted  piles,  and  made  buttresses  and  burned  them, 
leaving  their  charred  and  blackened  ruins,  standing  in 
the  water  from  shore  to  shore.  Then  he  gathered 
fragments  of  all  kinds,  like  those  of  which  the  raft 
was  built.  He  ordered  dilapidated  uniforms  and  cloth- 
ing of  every  grade,  and  hired  hundreds  of  peasants  to 


138  Adieu. 

wear  them ;  he  erected  huts  and  cabins  for  the  purpose 
of  burning  them.  In  short,  he  forgot  nothing  that  might 
recall  that  most  awful  of  all  scenes,  and  he  succeeded. 

Toward  the  last  of  December,  when  the  snow  had 
covered  with  its  thick,  white  mantle  all  his  imitative 
preparations,  he  recognized  the  Beresina.  This  false 
Russia  was  so  terribly  truthful,  that  several  of  his 
army  comrades  recognized  the  scene  of  their  past  mis- 
ery at  once.  .  Monsieur  de  Sucy  took  care  to  keep 
secret  the  motive  for  this  tragic  imitation,  which  was 
talked  of  in  several  Parisian  circles  as  a  proof  of 
insanity. 

Early  in  January,  1820,  the  colonel  drove  in  a  car- 
riage, the  very  counterpart  of  the  one  in  which  he  had 
driven  the  Comte  and  Comtesse  de  Vandieres  from 
Moscow  to  Studzianka.  The  horses,  too,  were  like 
those  he  had  gone,  at  the  peril  of  his  life,  to  fetch  from 
the  Russian  outposts.  He  himself  wore  the  soiled 
fantastic  clothing,  the  same  weapons,  as  on  the  29th 
of  November,  1812.  He  had  let  his  beard  grow,  also 
his  hair,  which  was  tangled  and  matted,  and  his  face 
was  neglected,  so  that  nothing  might  be  wanting  to 
represent  the  awful  truth. 

"  I  can  guess  your  purpose,"  cried  Monsieur  Fanjat, 
when  he  saw  the  colonel  getting  out  of  the  carriage. 
"  If  you  want  it  to  succeed,  do  not  let  ray  niece  see 
you  in  that  equipage.  To-night  I  will  give  her  opium. 
During  her  sleep,  we  will  dress  her  as  she  was  at  Stud- 
zianka, and  place  her  in  the  carriage.  I  will  follow 
you  in  another  vehicle." 

About  two  in  the  morning,  the  sleeping  countess  was 
placed  in  the  carriage  and  wrapped  in  heavy  coverings. 


Adieu.  139 

A  few  peasants  with  torches  lighted  up  this  strange 
abduction.  Suddenly,  a  piercing  cry  broke  the  silence 
of  the  night.  Philippe  and  the  doctor  turned,  and  saw 
Genevieve  coming  half-naked  from  the  ground-floor 
room  in  which  she  slept. 

14  Adieu,  adieu!  all  is  over,  adieu!"  she  cried, 
weeping  hot  tears. 

u  Genevieve,  what  troubles  you?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

Genevieve  shook  her  head  with  a  motion  of  despair, 
raised  her  arm  to  heaven,  looked  at  the  carriage,  utter- 
ing a  long-drawn  moan  with  every  sign  of  the  utmost 
terror ;  then  she  returned  to  her  room  silently. 

4t  That  is  a  good  omen!"  cried  the  colonel.  "She 
feels  she  is  to  lose  her  companion.  Perhaps  she  sees 
that  Stephanie  will  recover  her  reason." 

"God  grant  it!"  said  Monsieur  Fanjat,  who  him- 
self was  affected  by  the  incident. 

Ever  since  he  had  made  a  close  study  of  insanity, 
the  good  man  had  met  with  many  examples  of  the  pro- 
phetic faculty  and  the  gift  of  second  sight,  proofs  of 
which  are  frequently  given  by  alienated  minds,  and 
which  may  also  be  found,  so  travellers  say,  among  cer- 
tain tribes  of  savages. 

As  the  colonel  had  calculated,  Stephanie  crossed  the 
fictitious  plain  of  the  Beresina  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  when  she  was  awakened  by  a  cannon  shot 
not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  spot  where  the  experi- 
ment was  to  be  tried.  This  was  a  signal.  Hundreds 
of  peasants  made  a  frightful  clamor  like  that  on  the 
shore  of  the  river  that  memorable  night,  when  twenty 
thousand  stragglers  were  doomed  to  death  or  slavery 
by  their  own  folly. 


140  Adieu. 

At  the  cry,  at  the  shot,  the  countess  sprang  from  the 
carriage,    and    ran,    with   delirious  emotion,  over  the 
snow  to  the  banks  of  the  river ;  she   saw  the  burned 
bivouacs  and  the  charred  remains  of  the  bridge,  and 
the  fatal  raft,  which  the  men  were  launching  into  the 
icy  waters  of  the  Beresina.     The  major,  Philippe,  was 
there,  striking  back  the  crowd  with  his  sabre.     Madame 
de  Vandieres  gave  a  cry,  which  went  to  all  hearts,  and 
threw   herself   before  the    colonel,    whose    heart   beat 
wildly.     She   seemed  to  gather  herself  together,   and, 
at  first,  looked  vaguely  at  the  singular  scene.     For  an 
instant,  as  rapid  as  the  lightning's  flash,  her  eyes  had 
that  lucidity,  devoid  of  mind,  which  we  admire  in  the 
glittering  eye  of  birds  ;  then  passing  her  hand  across 
her  brow  with  the  keen  expression  of  one  who  medi- 
tates,  she  contemplated  the  living  memory  of  a  past 
scene  spread  before  her,  and,  turning  quickly  to  Phi- 
lippe,  she  saw  him.     An  awful  silence  reigned  in  the 
crowd.     The  colonel  gasped,  but  dared  not  speak  ;  the 
doctor  wept.     Stephanie's  sweet  face  colored  faintly ; 
then,   from   tint  to  tint,  it  returned  to  the  brightness 
of  youth,  till  it  glowed  with  a  beautiful  crimson.     Life 
and  happiness,   lighted  by  intelligence,    came    nearer 
and  nearer  like  a  conflagration.     Convulsive  trembling 
rose  from  her  feet  to  her  heart.     Then  these  phenom- 
ena seemed  to  blend  in  one  as  Stephanie's  eyes  cast 
forth  a  celestial  ray,  the  flame  of  a  living  soul.     She 
lived,  she  thought!     She  shuddered,  with  fear  perhaps, 
for  God  himself  unloosed  that  silent  tongue,  and  cast 
anew  His  fires  into  that  long-extinguished  soul.     Hu- 
man will  came  with  its  full  electric  torrent,  and  vivified 
the  body  from  which  it  had  been  driven. 


Adieu.  141 

"  Stephanie  !  "  cried  the  colonel. 

"  Oh!  it  is  Philippe,"  said  the  poor  countess. 

She  threw  herself  into  the  trembling  arms  that  the 
colonel  held  out  to  her,  and  the  clasp  of  the  lovers 
frightened  the  spectators.  Stephanie  burst  into  tears. 
Suddenly  her  tears  stopped,  she  stiffened  as  though 
the  lightning  had  touched  her,  and  said  in  a  feeble 
voice,  — 

"  Adieu,  Philippe  ;  I  love  thee,  adieu  !  " 

"Oh!  she  is  dead,"  cried  the  colonel,  opening  his 
arms. 

The  old  doctor  received  the  inanimate  body  of  his 
niece,  kissed  it  as  though  he  were  a  young  man,  and 
carrying  it  aside,  sat  down  with  it  still  in  his  arms  on 
a  pile  of  wood.  He  looked  at  the  countess  and  placed 
his  feeble  trembling  hand  upon  her  heart.  That  heart 
no  longer  beat. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  the  colonel, 
who  stood  motionless,  and  then  at  Stephanie,  on  wliom 
death  was  placing  that  resplendent  beauty,  that  fugi- 
tive halo,  which  is,  perhaps,  a  pledge  of  the  glorious 
future  —  "  Yes,  she  is  dead." 

"  Ah  !  that  smile,"  cried  Philippe,  "  do  you  see  that 
smile  ?     Can  it  be  true  ?  " 

"  She  is  turning  cold,"  replied  Monsieur  Fanjat. 

Monsieur  de  Sucy  made  a  few  steps  to  tear  himself 
away  from  the  sight ;  but  he  stopped,  whistled  the  air 
that  Stephanie  had  known,  and  when  she  did  not  come 
to  him,  went  on  with  staggering  steps  like  a  drunken 
man,  still  whistling,  but  never  turning  back. 

General  Philippe  de  Sucy  was  thought  in  the  social 
world   to  be  a  very  agreeable  man,   and  above  all  a 


142  Adieu. 

very  gay  one.  A  few  days  ago,  a  lady  complimented 
him  on  his  good  humor,  and  the  charming  equability 
of  his  nature. 

"Ah!  madame,"  he  said,  "I  pay  dear  for  my  live- 
liness in  my  lonely  evenings." 

"  Are  you  ever  alone?"  she  said. 
'  No,"  he  replied  smiling. 

If  a  judicious  observer  of  human  nature  could  have 
seen  at  that  moment  the  expression  on  the  Comte  de 
Sucy's  face,  he  would  perhaps  have  shuddered. 

"Why  don't  you  marry?"  said  the  lady,  who  had 
several  daughters  at  school.  "You  are  rich,  titled, 
and  of  ancient  lineage ;  you  have  talents,  and  a  great 
future  before  you ;   all  things  smile  upon  you." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  but  a  smile  kills  me." 

The  next  day  the  lady  heard  with  great  astonish- 
ment that  Monsieur  de  Sucy  had  blown  his  brains  out 
during  the  night.  The  upper  ranks  of  society  talked  in 
various  ways  over  this  extraordinary  event,  and  each 
person  looked  for  the  cause  of  it.  According  to  the 
proclivities  of  each  reasoner,  play,  love,  ambition,  hid- 
den disorders,  and  vices,  explained  the  catastrophe,  the 
last  scene  of  a  drama  begun  in  1812.  Two  men  alone, 
a  marquis  and  former  deputy,  and  an  aged  physician, 
knew  that  Philippe  de  Sucy  was  one  of  those  strong 
men  to  whom  God  has  given  the  unhappy  power  of 
issuing  daily  in  trjumph  from  awful  combats  which 
they  fight  with  an  unseen  monster.  If,  for  a  moment, 
God  withdraws  from  such  men  His  all-powerful  hand, 
they  succumb. 


A  DRAMA  ON   THE  SEASHORE. 


A  DRAMA  ON  THE  SEASHORE. 


To    Madame   la    Princesse   Caroline   Galitzin  de 

Genthod,  ne'e  Comtesse  Walewska. 

Homage  and  remembrances  of 

The  Author. 


Nearly  all  young  men  have  a  compass  with  which 
they  delight  in  measuring  the  future.  When  their  will 
is  equal  to  the  breadth  of  the  angle  at  which  they  open 
it  the  world  is  theirs.  But  this  phenomenon  of  the 
inner  life  takes  place  only  at  a  certain  age.  That  age, 
which  for  all  men  lies  between  twenty-two  and  twenty- 
eight,  is  the  period  of  great  thoughts,  of  fresh  concep- 
tions, because  it  is  the  age  of  immense  desires.  After 
that  age,  short  as  the  seed-time,  comes  that  of  execu- 
tion. There  are,  as  it  were,  two  youths,  — the  youth 
of  belief,  the  youth  of  action ;  these  are  often  com- 
mingled in  men  whom  Nature  has  favored  and  who, 
like  Caesar,  like  Newton,  like  Bonaparte,  are  the  great- 
est among  great  men. 

I  was  measuring  how  long  a  time  it  might  take  a 
thought  to  develop.  Compass  in  hand,  standing  on  a 
rock  some  hundred  fathoms  above  the  ocean,  the  waves 
of  which  were  breaking  on  the  reef  below,  I  surveyed 

10 


146  A  Drama  on  the  Seashore. 

my   future,    filling   it   with   books   as  an   engineer  or 
builder  traces  on  vacant  ground  a  palace  or  a  fort. 

The  sea  was  beautiful ;  I  had  just  dressed  after 
bathing  ;  and  I  awaited  Pauline,  who  was  also  bathing, 
in  a  granite  cove  floored  with  fine  sand,  the  most  co- 
quettish bath-room  that  Nature  ever  devised  for  her 
water-fairies.  The  spot  was  at  the  farther  end  of 
Croisic,  a  dainty  little  peninsula  in  Brittany ;  it  was 
far  from  the  port,  and  so  inaccessible  that  the  coast- 
guard seldom  thought  it  necessary  to  pass  that  way. 
To  float  in  ether  after  floating  on  the  wave !  —  ah ! 
who  would  not  have  floated  on  the  future  as  I  did  ! 
Why  was  I  thinking?  Whence  comes  evil?  —  who 
knows !  Ideas  drop  into  our  hearts  or  into  our  heads 
without  consulting  us.  No  courtesan  was  ever  more 
capricious  nor  more  imperious  than  conception  is  to 
artists ;  we  must  grasp  it,  like  fortune,  by  the  hair 
when  it  comes. 

Astride  upon  my  thought,  like  Astolphe  on  his  hip- 
pogriff,  I  was  galloping  through  worlds,  suiting  them 
to  my  fancy.  Presently,  as  I  looked  about  me  to  find 
some  omen  for  the  bold  productions  my  wild  imagina- 
tion was  urging  me  to  undertake,  a  pretty  cry,  the  cry 
of  a  woman  issuing  refreshed  and  joyous  from  a  bath, 
rose  above  the  murmur  of  the  rippling  fringes  as  their 
flux  and  reflux  marked  a  white  line  along  the  shore. 
Hearing  that  note  as  it  gushed  from  a  soul,  I  fancied 
I  saw  among  the  rocks  the  foot  of  an  angel,  who  with 
outspread  wings  cried  out  to  me,  "  Thou  shalt  suc- 
ceed !  "  I  came  down  radiant,  light-hearted  ;  I  bounded 
like  a  pebble  rolling  down  a  rapid  slope.  When  she 
saw  me,  she  said,  — 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  147 

"What  is  it?" 

I  did  not  answer ;  my  eyes  were  moist.  The  night 
before,  Pauline  had  understood  my  sorrows,  as  she  now 
understood  my  joy,  with  the  magical  sensitiveness  of 
a  harp  that  obeys  the  variations  of  the  atmosphere. 
Human  life  has  glorious  moments.  Together  we 
walked  in  silence  along  the  beach.  The  sky  was 
cloudless,  the  sea  without  a  ripple ;  others  might  have 
thought  them  merely  two  blue  surfaces,  the  one  above 
the  other,  but  we  —  we  who  heard  without  the  need  of 
words,  we  who  could  evoke  between  these  two  infini- 
tudes the  illusions  that  nourish  youth,  —  we  pressed 
each  other's  hands  at  every  change  in  the  sheet  of 
water  or  the  sheets  of  air,  for  we  took  those  slight  phe- 
nomena as  the  visible  translation  of  our  double  thought. 
Who  has  never  tasted  in  wedded  love  that  moment  of 
illimitable  joy  when  the  soul  seems  freed  from  the 
trammels  of  flesh,  and  finds  itself  restored,  as  it  were, 
to  the  world  whence  it  came?  Are  there  not  hours 
when  feelings  clasp  each  other  and  fly  upward,  like 
children  taking  hands  and  running,  they  scarce  know 
why?     It  was  thus  we  went  along. 

At  the  moment  when  the  village  roofs  began  to  show 
like  a  faint  gray  line  on  the  horizon,  we  met  a  fisher- 
man, a  poor  man  returning  to  Croisic.  His  feet  were 
bare  ;  his  linen  trousers  ragged  round  the  bottom  ;  his 
shirt  of  common  sailcloth,  .  and  his  jacket  tatters. 
This  abject  poverty  pained  us  ;  it  was  like  a  discord 
amid  our  harmonies.  We  looked  at  each  other,  griev- 
ing mutually  that  we  had  not  at  that  moment  the  power 
to  dip  into  the  treasury  of  Aboul  Casern.  But  we  saw 
a   splendid   lobster   and   a  crab    fastened  to  a  string 


148  A  Drama  on  the  Seashore. 

which  the  fisherman  was  dangling  in  his  right  hand, 
while  with  the  left  he  held  his  tackle  and  his  net. 

We  accosted  him  with  the  intention  of  buying  his 
haul,  —  an  idea  which  came  to  us  both,  and  was  ex- 
pressed in  a  smile,  to  which  I  responded  by  a  slight 
pressure  of  the  arm  I  held  and  drew  toward  my  heart. 
It  was  one  of  those  nothings  of  which  memory  makes 
poems  when  we  sit  by  the  fire  and  recall  the  hour  when 
that  nothing  moved  us,  and  the  place  where  it  did  so, 

—  a  mirage  the  effects  of  which  have  never  been  noted 
down,  though  it  appears  on  the  objects  that  surround 
us  in  moments  when  life  sits  lightly  and  our  hearts  are 
full.  The  loveliest  scenery  is  that  we  make  ourselves. 
What  man  with  any  poesy  in  him  does  not  remember 
some  mere  mass  of  rock,  which  holds,  it  may  be,  a 
greater  place  in  his  memory  than  the  celebrated  land- 
scapes of  other  lauds,  sought  at  great  cost.  Beside 
that  rock,  tumultuous  thoughts !  There  a  whole  life 
evolved ;  there  all  fears  dispersed ;  there  the  rays  of 
hope  descended  to  the  soul !  At  this  moment,  the  sun, 
sympathizing  with  these  thoughts  of  love  and  of  the 
future,  had  cast  an  ardent  glow  upon  the  savage  flanks 
of  the  rock ;  a  few  wild  mountain  flowers  were  visible ; 
the  stillness  and  the  silence  magnified  that  rugged  pile, 

—  really  sombre,  though  tinted  by  the  dreamer,  and 
beautiful  beneath  its  scanty  vegetation,  the  warm 
chamomile,  the  Venus'  tresses  with  their  velvet  leaves. 
Oh,  lingering  festival ;  oh,  glorious  decorations ;  oh, 
happy  exaltation  of  human  forces !  Once  already  the 
lake  of  Brienne  had  spoken  to  me  thus.  The  rock  of 
Croisic  may  be  perhaps  the  last  of  these  my  joys.  If 
so,  what  will  become  of  Pauline? 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  149 

''Have  you  had  a  good  catch  to-day,  my  man?'1 
I  said  to  the  fisherman. 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  he  replied,  stopping  and  turning 
toward  us  the  swarthy  face  of  those  who  spend  whole 
days  exposed  to  the  reflection  of  the  sun  upon  the 
water. 

That  face  was  an  emblem  of  long  resignation,  of  the 
patience  of  a  fisherman  and  his  quiet  ways.  The  man 
had  a  voice  without  harshness,  kind  lips,  evidently  no 
ambition,  and  something  frail  and  puny  about  him. 
Any  other  sort  of  countenance  would,  at  that  moment, 
have  jarred  upon  us. 

"  Where  shall  you  sell  your  fish?  " 

"In  the  town." 

"  How  much  will  they  pay  you  for  that  lobster?" 

"  Fifteen  sous." 

"And  the  crab?" 

"  Twenty  sous." 

"Why  so  much  difference  between  a  lobster  and  a 
crab?" 

"  Monsieur,  the  crab  is  much  more  delicate  eating. 
Besides,  it 's  as  malicious  as  a  monkey,  and  it  seldom 
lets  you  catch  it." 

"  Will  you  let  us  buy  the  two  for  a  hundred  sous?  " 
asked  Pauline. 

The  man  seemed  petrified. 

"  You  shall  not  have  it!'  I  said  to  her,  laughing. 
"  I  '11  pay  ten  francs;  we  should  count  the  emotions 
in." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  "then  I'll  pay  ten  francs, 
two   sous." 

"  Ten  francs,  ten  sous." 


150  A  Drama  on  the  Seashore. 

"  Twelve  francs." 

"  Fifteen  francs." 

"Fifteen  francs,  fifty  centimes,"  she  said. 

"  One  hundred  francs." 

"One  hundred  and  fifty  francs." 

I  yielded.  We  were  not  rich  enough  at  that  mo- 
ment to  bid  higher.  Our  poor  fisherman  did  not  know 
whether  to  be  angry  at  a  hoax,  or  to  go  mad  with  joy ; 
we  drew  him  from  his  quandary  by  giving  him  the 
name  of  our  landlady  and  telling  him  to  take  the  lob- 
ster and  the  crab  to  her  house. 

"Do  you  earn  enough  to  live  on?"  I  asked  the 
man,  in  order  to  discover  the  cause  of  his  evident 
penury. 

"  With  great  hardships,  and  always  poorly,"  he 
replied.  "Fishing  on  the  coast,  when  one  hasn't  a 
boat  or  deep-sea  nets,  nothing  but  pole  and  line,  is 
a  very  uncertain  business.  You  see  we  have  to  wait 
for  the  fish,  or  the  shell-fish;  whereas  a  real  fisherman 
puts  out  to  sea  for  them.  It  is  so  hard  to  earn  a  living 
this  way  that  I  'm  the  only  man  in  these  parts  who 
fishes  alongshore.  I  spend  whole  days  without  getting 
anything.  To  catch  a  crab,  it  must  go  to  sleep,  as  this 
one  did,  and  a  lobster  must  be  silly  enough  to  stay 
among  the  rocks.  Sometimes  after  a  high  tide  the 
mussels  come  in  and  I  grab  them." 

"Well,  taking  one  day  with  another,  how  much  do 
you  earn  ?  " 

"Oh,  eleven  or  twelve  sous.  1  could  do  writh  that 
if  I  were  alone  ;  but  I  have  got  my  old  father  to  keep, 
and  he  can't  do  anything,  the  good  man,  because  he  's 
blind." 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  151 

At  these  words,  said  simply,  Pauline  and  I  looked  at 
each  other  without  a  word  ;  then  I  asked,  — 

"  Have  n't  you  a  wife,  or  some  good  friend?  " 

He  cast  upon  us  one  of  the  most  lamentable  glances 
that  I  ever  saw  as  he  answered,  — 

"If  I  had  a  wife  I  must  abandon  my  father;  I 
could  not  feed  him  and  a  wife  and  children  too." 

"  Well,  my  poor  lad,  why  don't  you  try  to  earn  more 
at  the  salt  marshes,  or  by  carrying  the  salt  to  the 
harbor  ?  " 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  I  could  n't  do  that  work  three 
months.  I  am  not  strong  enough,  and  if  I  died  my 
father  would  have  to  beg.  I  am  forced  to  take  a 
business  which  only  needs  a  little  knack  and  a  great 
deal  of  patience." 

"  But  how  can  two  persons  live  on  twelve  sous 
a  day?" 

"  Oh,  monsieur,  we  eat  cakes  made  of  buckwheat, 
and  barnacles  which  I  get  off  the  rocks." 

"  How  old  are  you?  " 

"  Thirty-seven." 

"  Did  you  ever  leave  Croisic?  " 

"  I  went  once  to  Guerande  to  draw  for  the  con- 
scription ;  and  I  went  to  Savenay  to  the  messieurs  who 
measure  for  the  army.  If  I  had  been  half  an  inch 
taller  they  'd  have  made  me  a  soldier.  I  should  have 
died  of  my  first  march,  and  my  poor  father  would 
to-day  be  begging  his  bread." 

I  had  thought  out  many  dramas ;  Pauline  was  ac- 
customed to  great  emotions  beside  a  man  so  suffering 
as  myself ;  well,  never  had  either  of  us  listened  to 
words  so  moving  as  these.     We  walked  on  in  silence, 


152  A  Drama  on  the  Seashore. 

measuring,  each  of  us,  the  silent  depths  of  that  obscure 
life,  admiring  the  nobility  of  a  devotion  which  was 
ignorant  of  itself.  The  strength  of  that  feebleness 
amazed  us;  the  man's  unconscious  generosity  belittled 
us.  I  saw  that  poor  being  of  instinct  chained  to  that 
rock  like  a  galley-slave  to  his  ball ;  watching  through 
twenty  years  for  shell-fish  to  earn  a  living,  and 
sustained  in  his  patience  by  a  single  sentiment.  How 
many  hours  wasted  on  a  lonely  shore!  How  many 
hopes  defeated  by  a  change  of  weather !  He  was 
hanging  there  to  a  granite  rock,  his  arm  extended  like 
that  of  an  Indian  fakir,  while  his  father,  sitting  in  their 
hovel,  awaited,  in  silence  and  darkness,  a  meal  of  the 
coarsest  bread  and  shell-fish,  if  the  sea  permitted. 

u  Do  you  ever  drink  wine?  "  I  asked. 

"  Three  or  four  times  a  year,"  he  replied. 

"Well,  you  shall  drink  it  to-day, — you  and  your 
father;  and  we  will  send  you  some  white  bread." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  monsieur?  " 

"We  will  give  you  your  dinner  if  you  will  show  us 
the  way  along  the  shore  to  Batz,  where  we  wish  to  see 
the  tower  which  overlooks  the  bay  between  Batz  and 
Croisic." 

"With  pleasure,"  he  said.  "Go  straight  before 
you,  along  the  path  you  are  now  on,  and  I  will  follow 
you  when  I  have  put  away  my  tackle." 

We  nodded  consent,  and  he  ran  off  joyfully  toward 
the  town.  This  meeting  maintained  us  in  our  previ- 
ous mental  condition ;  but  it  lessened  our  gay  light- 
hearted  n  ess. 

"  Poor  man  !  "  said  Pauline,  with  that  accent  which 
removes  from  the  compassion  of  a  woman  all  that  is 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  153 

mortifying  in  human  pity,  "ought  we  not  to  feel  ashamed 
of  our  happiness  in  presence  of  such  misery  ?  ' 

"  Nothing  is  so  cruelly  painful  as  to  have  powerless 
desires,"  I  answered.  "  Those  two  poor  creatures,  the 
father  and  son,  will  never  know  how  keen  our  sympathy 
for  them  is,  any  more  than  the  world  will  know  how 
beautiful  are  their  lives;  they  are  laying  up  their 
treasures  in  heaven." 

"  Oh,  how  poor  this  country  is  !  "  she  said,  pointing 
to  a  field  inclosed  by  a  dry  stone  wall,  which  was 
covered  with  droppings  of  cow's  dung  applied  symmetri- 
cally. "  I  asked  a  peasant  woman  who  was  busy 
sticking  them  on,  why  it  was  done  ;  she  answered  that 
she  was  making  fuel.  Could  you  have  imagined  that 
when  those  patches  of  dung  have  dried,  human  beings 
would  collect  them,  store  them,  and  use  them  for  fuel? 
During  the  winter,  they  are  even  sold  as  peat  is  sold. 
And  what  do  you  suppose  the  best  dressmaker  in  the 
place  can  earn  ?  —  five  sous  a  day !  "  adding,  after  a 
pause,  "and  her  food." 

"But  see,"  I  said,  "how  the  winds  from  the  sea 
bend  or  destroy  everything.  There  are  no  trees. 
Fragments  of  wreckage  or  old  vessels  that  are  broken 
up  are  sold  to  those  who  can  afford  to  buy  ;  for  costs  of 
transportation  are  too  heavy  to  allow  them  to  use  the 
firewood  with  which  Brittany  abounds.  This  region 
is  fine  for  none  but  noble  souls ;  persons  without 
sentiments  could  never  live  here  ;  poets  and  barnacles 
alone  should  inhabit  it.  All  that  ever  brought  a  popu- 
lation to  this  rock  were  the  salt-marshes  and  the  factory 
which  prepares  the  salt.  On  one  side  the  sea ;  on  the 
other,  sand  ;  above,  illimitable  space." 


154  A  Drama  on  the  Seashore. 

We  had  now  passed  the  town,  and  had  reached  the 
species  of  desert  which  separates  Croisic  from  the 
village  of  Batz.  Imagine,  my  dear  uncle,  a  barren 
track  of  miles  covered  with  the  glittering  sand  of  the 
seashore.  Here  and  there  a  few  rocks  lifted  their 
heads ;  you  might  have  thought  them  gigantic  animals 
couchant  on  the  dunes.  Along  the  coast  were  reefs, 
around  which  the  water  foamed  and  sparkled,  giving 
them  the  appearance  of  great  white  roses,  floating 
on  the  liquid  surface  or  resting  on  the  shore.  Seeing 
this  barren  tract  with  the  ocean  on  one  side,  and  on 
the  other  the  arm  of  the  sea  which  runs  up  between 
Croisic  and  the  rocky  shore  of  Guerande,  at  the  base 
of  which  lay  the  salt  marshes,  denuded  of  vegetation,  I 
looked  at  Pauline  and  asked  her  if  she  felt  the  cour- 
age to  face  the  burning  sun  and  the  streugth  to  walk 
through  sand. 

"I  have  boots,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  go,"  and  she 
pointed  to  the  tower  of  Batz,  which  arrested  the  eye  by 
its  immense  pile  placed  there  like  a  pyramid ;  but  a 
slender,  delicately  outlined  pyramid,  a  pyramid  so 
poetically  ornate  that  the  imagination  figured  in  it  the 
earliest  ruin  of  a  great  Asiatic  city. 

We  advanced  a  few  steps  and  sat  down  upon  the 
portion  of  a  large  rock  which  was  still  in  the  shade. 
But  it  was  now  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  shadow,  which 
ceased  at  our  feet,  was  disappearing  rapidly. 

"  How  beautiful  this  silence  !  "  she  said  to  me  ;  "  and 
how  the  depth  of  it  is  deepened  by  the  rhythmic  quiver 
of  the  wave  upon  the  shore." 

u  If  you  will  give  your  understanding  to  the  three 
immensities  which  surround  us,  the  water,  the  air,  and 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  155 

the  sands,  and  listen  exclusively  to  the  repeating 
sounds  of  flux  and  reflux,"  I  answered  her,  "you 
will  not  be  able  to  endure  their  speech ;  you  will  thiuk 
it  is  uttering  a  thought  which  will  annihilate  you.  Last 
evening,  at  sunset,  I  had  that  sensation;  and  it 
exhausted  me." 

"  Oh !  let  us  talk,  let  us  talk,"  she  said,  after  a  long 
pause.  "  I  understand  it.  No  orator  was  ever  more 
terrible.  I  think,"  she  continued,  presently,  "that  I 
perceive  the  causes  of  the  harmonies  which  surround  us. 
This  landscape,  which  has  but  three  marked  colors,  — 
the  brilliant  yellow  of  the  sands,  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
the  even  green  of  the  sea,  —  is  grand  without  being 
savage ;  it  is  immense,  yet  not  a  desert ;  it  is  mo- 
notonous, but  it  does  not  weary ;  it  has  only  three 
elements,  and  yet  it  is  varied." 

"Women  alone  know  how  to  render  such  impres- 
sions," I  said.  "  You  would  be  the  despair  of  a  poet, 
dear  soul  that  I  divine  so  well !  " 

"  The  extreme  heat  of  mid-day  casts  into  those  three 
expressions  of  the  infinite  an  all-powerful  color,"  said 
Pauline,  smiling.  "  I  can  here  conceive  the  poesy  and 
the  passion  of  the  East." 

"  And  I  can  perceive  its  despair." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "this  dune  is  a  cloister,  —  a  sub- 
lime cloister." 

We  now  heard  the  hurried  steps  of  our  guide ;  he 
had  put  on  his  Sunday  clothes.  We  addressed  a  few 
ordinary  words  to  him ;  he  seemed  to  think  that  our 
mood  had  changed,  and  with  that  reserve  that  comes 
of  misery,  he  kept  silence.  Though  from  time  to  time 
we  pressed  each  other's  hands  that  we  might  feel  the 


156  A  Drama  on  the  Seashore. 

mutual  flow  of  our  ideas  and  impressions,  we  walked 
along  for  half  an  hour  in  silence,  either  because  we 
were  oppressed  by  the  heat  which  rose  in  waves  from 
the  burning  sands,  or  because  the  difficulty  of  walking 
absorbed  our  attention.  Like  children,  we  held  each 
other's  hands ;  in  fact,  we  could  hardly  have  made  a 
dozen  steps  had  we  walked  arm  in  arm.  The  path 
which  led  to  Batz  was  not  so  much  as  traced.  A  gust 
of  wind  was  enough  to  efface  all  tracks  left  by  the 
hoofs  of  horses  or  the  wheels  of  carts ;  but  the  prac- 
tised eye  of  our  guide  could  recognize  by  scraps  of  mud 
or  the  dung  of  cattle  the  road  that  crossed  that  desert, 
now  descending  towards  the  sea,  then  rising  landward 
according  to  either  the  fall  of  the  ground  or  the  neces- 
sity of  rounding  some  breastwork  of  rock.  By  mid-day, 
we  were  only  half  way. 

"We  will  stop  to  rest  over  there,"  I  said,  pointing 
to  a  promontory  of  rocks  sufficiently  high  to  make  it 
probable  we  could  find  a  grotto. 

The  fisherman,  who  heard  me  and  saw  the  direction 
in  which  I  pointed,  shook  his  head,  and  said,  — 

"  Some  one  is  there.  All  those  who  come  from  the 
village  of  Batz  to  Croisic,  or  from  Croisic  to  Batz,  go 
round  that  place  ;  they  never  pass  it." 

These  words  were  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  seemed  to 
indicate  a  mystery. 

"  Who  is  he,  —  a  robber,  a  murderer  ?  " 

Our  guide  answered  only  by  drawing  a  deep  breath, 
which  redoubled  our  curiosity. 

"  But  if  we  pass  that  way,  would  any  harm  happen 
tons?" 

"  Oh,  no!" 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  157 

"Will  you  go  with  us?" 

"  No,  monsieur." 

"  We  will  go,  if  you  assure  us  there  is  no  danger." 

"  I  do  not  say  so,"  replied  the  fisherman,  hastily. 
"I  only  say  that  he  who  is  there  will  say  nothing  to 
you,  and  do  you  no  harm.  He  never  so  much  as  moves 
from  his  place." 

44  Who  is  it?" 

"A  man." 

Never  were  two  syllables  pronounced  in  so  tragic 
a  manner.  At  this  moment  we  were  about  fifty  feet 
from  the  rocky  eminence,  which  extended  a  long  reef 
into  the  sea.  Our  guide  took  a  path  which  led  him 
round  the  base  of  the  rock.  We  ourselves  continued 
our  way  over  it;  but  Pauline  took  my  arm.  Our  guide 
hastened  his  steps  in  order  to  meet  us  on  the  other  side, 
where  the  two  paths  came  together  again. 

This  circumstance  excited  our  curiosity,  which  soon 
became  so  keen  that  our  hearts  were  beating  as  if  with 
a  sense  of  fear.  In  spite  of  the  heat  of  the  day,  and 
the  fatigue  caused  by  toiling  through  the  sand,  our 
souls  were  still  surrendered  to  the  softness  unspeakable 
of  our  exquisite  ecstasy.  They  were  filled  with  that 
pure  pleasure  which  cannot  be  described  unless  we 
liken  it  to  the  joy  of  listening  to  enchanting  music, 
Mozart's  Audiamo  mio  ben,  for  instance.  When  two 
pure  sentiments  blend  together,  what  is  that  but  two 
sweet  voices  singing?  To  be  able  to  appreciate  prop- 
erly the  emotion  that  held  us,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
share  the  state  of  half  sensuous  delmht  into  which  the 
events  of  the  morning  had  plunged  us.  Admire  for  a 
long  time   some    pretty   dove   with    iridescent   colors, 


158  A  Drama  on  the  Seashore. 

perched  on  a  swaying  branch  above  a  spring,  and  you 
will  give  a  cry  of  pain  when  you  see  a  hawk  swooping 
down  upon  her,  driving  its  steel  claws  into  her  breast, 
and  bearing  her  away  with  murderous  rapidity.  When 
we  had  advanced  a  step  or  two  into  an  open  space 
which  lay  before  what  seemed  to  be  a  grotto,  a  sort  of 
esplanade  placed  a  hundred  feet  above  the  ocean,  and 
protected  from  its  fury  by  buttresses  of  rock,  we  sud- 
denly experienced  an  electrical  shudder,  something 
resembling  the  shock  of  a  sudden  noise  awaking  us  in 
the  dead  of  night. 

We  saw,  sitting  on  a  vast  granite  boulder,  a  man 
who  looked  at  us.  His  glance,  like  that  of  the  flash  of 
a  cannon,  came  from  two  bloodshot  eyes,  and  his 
stoical  immobility  could  be  compared  only  to  the  im- 
mutable granite  masses  that  surrounded  Mm.  His  eyes 
moved  slowly,  his  body  remaining  rigid  as  though  he 
were  petrified.  Then,  having  cast  upon  us  that  look 
which  struck  us  like  a  blow,  he  turned  his  eyes  once 
more  to  the  limitless  ocean,  and  gazed  upon  it,  in  spite 
of  its  dazzling  light,  as  eagles  gaze  at  the  sun,  without 
lowering  his  eyelids.  Try  to  remember,  dear  uncle,  one 
of  those  old  oaks,  whose  knotty  trunks,  from  which  the 
branches  have  been  lopped,  rise  with  weird  power  in 
some  lonely  place,  and  you  will  have  an  image  of  this 
man.  Here  was  a  ruined  Herculean  frame,  the  face 
of  an  Olympian  Jove,  destroyed  by  age,  by  hard  sea 
toil,  by  grief,  by  common  food,  and  blackened  as  it 
were  by  lightning.  Looking  at  his  hard  and  hairy 
hands,  I  saw  that  the  sinews  stood  out  like  cords  of 
iron.  Everything  about  him  denoted  strength  of  con- 
stitution.   1  noticed  in  a  corner  of  the  grotto  a  quantity 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  159 

of  moss,  and  on  a  sort  of  ledge  carved  by  nature  on 
tlie  granite,  a  loaf  of  bread,  which  covered  the  mouth 
of  an  earthenware  jug.  Never  had  my  imagination, 
when  it  carried  me  to  the  deserts  where  early  Christian 
anchorites  spent  their  lives,  depicted  to  my  mind  a 
form  more  grandly  religious  nor  more  horribly  re- 
pentant than  that  of  this  man.  You,  who  have  a  life- 
long experience  of  the  confessional,  dear  uncle,  you 
may  never,  perhaps,  have  seen  so  awful  a  remorse,  — 
remorse  sunk  in  the  waves  of  prayer,  the  ceaseless 
supplication  of  a  mute  despair.  This  fisherman,  this 
mariner,  this  hard,  coarse  Breton,  was  sublime  through 
some  hidden  emotion.  Had  those  eyes  wept?  That 
hand,  moulded  for  an  unwrought  statue,  had  it 
struck  ?  That  rugged  brow,  where  savage  honor  was 
imprinted,  and  on  which  strength  had  left  vestiges  of 
the  gentleness  which  is  an  attribute  of  all  true  strength, 
that  forehead  furrowed  with  wrinkles,  was  it  in  har- 
mony with  the  heart  within?  Why  was  this  man  in 
the  granite?  Why  was  the  granite  in  the  man?  Which 
was  the  man,  which  was  the  granite?  A  world  of  fan- 
cies came  into  our  minds.  As  our  guide  had  prophe- 
sied, we  passed  in  silence,  rapidly ;  when  he  met  us 
he  saw  our  emotion  of  mingled  terror  and  astonish- 
ment,  but  he  made  no  boast  of  the  truth  of  his  predic- 
tion ;  he  merely  said,  — 

"  You  have  seen  him." 

"Who  is  that  man?" 

"  They  call  him  the  Man  of  the  Vow." 

You  can  imagine  the  movement  with  which  our  two 
heads  turned  at  once  to  our  guide.  He  was  a  simple- 
hearted  fellow ;  he  understood  at  once  our  mute  in- 


160  A  Drama  on  the  Seashore, 

quiry,  and  here  follows  what  he  told  us ;  I  shall  try  to 
give  it  as  best  I  can  in  his  own  language,  retaining  his 
popular  parlance. 

"  Madame,  folks  from  Croisic  and  those  from  Batz 
think  this  man  is  guilty  of  something,  and  is  doing  a 
penance  ordered  by  a  famous  rector  to  whom  he  con- 
fessed his  sin  somewhere  beyond  Nantes.  Others 
think  that  Cambremer,  that 's  his  name,  casts  an  evil 
fate  on  those  who  come  within  his  air,  and  so  they 
always  look  which  way  the  wind  is  before  they  pass 
this  rock.  If  it 's  nor'-westerly  they  would  n't  go  by, 
no,  not  if  their  errand  was  to  get  a  bit  of  the  true 
cross  ;  they  'd  go  back,  frightened.  Others  —  they 
are  the  rich  folks  of  Croisic  —  they  say  that  Cam- 
bremer has  made  a  vow,  and  that's  why  people  call 
him  the  Man  of  the  Vow.  He  is  there  night  and  day, 
he  never  leaves  the  place.  All  these  sayings  have 
some  truth  in  them.  See  there,"  he  continued,  turning 
round  to  show  us  a  thing  we  had  not  remarked,  "  look 
at  that  wooden  cross  he  has  set  up  there,  to  the  left, 
to  show  that  he  has  put  himself  under  the  protection 
of  God  and  the  holy  Virgin  and  the  saints.  But  the 
fear  that  people  have  of  him  keeps  him  as  safe  as  if 
he  were  guarded  by  a  troop  of  soldiers.  He  has  never 
said  one  word  since  he  locked  himself  up  in  the  open 
air  in  this  way ;  he  lives  on  bread  and  water,  which  is 
brought  to  him  every  morning  by  his  brother's  daugh- 
ter, a  little  lass  about  twelve  years  old  to  whom  he  has 
left  his  property,  a  pretty  creature,  gentle  as  a  lamb, 
a  nice  little  girl,  so  pleasant.  She  has  such  blue  e}Tes, 
long  as  that,"  he  added,  marking  a  line  on  his  thumb, 
"  and   hair   like   the    cherubim.     When  you  ask  her: 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  161 

1  Tell  me,  Perotte  (That 's  how  we  say  Pierrette  in 
these  parts,'  he  remarked,  interrupting  himself;  'she 
is  vowed  to  Saint  Pierre  ;  Cambremer  is  named  Pierre, 
and  he  was  her  godfather)  —  '  Tell  me,  Pe'rotte,  what 
does  your  uncle  say  to  you  ??  — 'He  says  nothing  to 
me,  nothing.'  — 'Well  then,  what  does  he  do  to 
you?'  'He  kisses  me  on  the  forehead,  Sundays.'  — 
'  Are  you  afraid  of  him  ? '  —  '  Ah,  no,  no  ;  is  n't  he  my 
godfather?  he  wouldn't  have  anybody  but  me  bring 
him  his  food.'  Perotte  declares  that  he  smiles  when 
she  comes ;  but  you  might  as  well  say  the  sun  shines 
in  a  fog ;  he 's  as  gloomy  as  a  cloudy  day." 

"  But,"  I  said  to  him,  "  you  excite  our  curiosity 
without  satisfying  it.  Do  you  know  what  brought 
him  there?  Was  it  grief,  or  repentance  ;  is  it  a  mania  ; 
is  it  crime  ;  is  it  —  " 

"  Eh,  monsieur,  there  '3  no  one  but  my  father  and 
I  who  know  the  real  truth.  My  late  mother  was  ser- 
vant in  the  family  of  a  lawyer  to  whom  Cambremer 
told  all  by  order  of  the  priest,  who  would  n't  give  him 
absolution  until  he  had  done  so —  at  least,  that 's  what 
the  folks  of  the  port  say.  My  poor  mother  overheard 
Cambremer  without  trying  to ;  the  lawyer's  kitchen 
was  close  to  the  office,  and  that's  how  she  heard. 
She 's  dead,  and  so  is  the  lawyer.  My  mother  made  us 
promise,  my  father  and  I,  not  to  talk  about  the  mat- 
ter to  the  folks  of  the  neighborhood  ;  but  I  can  tell 
you  my  hair  stood  on  end  the  night  she  told  us  the 
tale." 

"  Well,  my  man,  tell  it  to  us  now,  and  we  won't 
speak  of  it." 

The  fisherman  looked  at  us  ;   then  he  continued  : 

11 


162  A  Drama  on  the  Seashore. 

"  Pierre  Cambremer,  whom  you  have  seen  there,  is 
the  eldest  of  the  Cambremers,  who  from  father  to  son 
have  always  been  sailors ;  their  name  says  it  —  the  sea 
bends  under  them.  Pierre  was  a  deep-sea  fisherman. 
He  had  boats,  and  fished  for  sardine,  also  for  the  big 
fishes,  and  sold  them  to  dealers.  He  'd  have  char- 
tered a  large  vessel  and  trawled  for  cod  if  he  had  n't 
loved  his  wife  so  much;  she  was  a  fine  woman,  a 
Brouin  of  Guerande,  with  a  good  heart.  She  loved 
Cambremer  so  much  that  she  could  n't  bear  to  have 
her  man  leave  her  for  longer  than  to  fish  sardine. 
They  lived  over  there,  look!"  said  the  fisherman, 
going  up  a  hillock  to  show  us  an  island  in  the  little 
Mediterranean  between  the  dunes  where  we  were  walk- 
ing and  the  marshes  of  Guerande.  "  You  can  see  the 
house  from  here.  It  belonged  to  him.  Jacquette 
Brouin  and  Cambremer  had  only  one  son,  a  lad  they 
loved  — how  shall  I  say?  —  well,  they  loved  him  like 
an  only  child,  they  were  mad  about  him.  How  many 
times  we  have  seen  them  at  fairs  buying  all  sorts  of 
things  to  please  him  ;  it  was  out  of  all  reason  the  way 
they  indulged  him,  and  so  folks  told  them.  The  little 
Cambremer,  seeing  that  he  was  never  thwarted,  grew 
as  vicious  as  a  red  ass.  When  they  told  pere  Cam- 
bremer, '  Your  son  has  nearly  killed  little  such  a  one,' 
he  would  laugh  and  say  :  '  Bah!  he  '11  be  a  bold  sailor  ; 
he'll  command  the  king's  fleets.'  —  Another  time, 
'  Pierre  Cambremer,  did  you  know  your  lad  very  nearly 
put  out  the  eye  of  the  little  Pougard  girl  ? '  —  '  Ha ! 
he  '11  like  the  girls,'  said  Pierre.  Nothing  troubled  him. 
At  ten  years  old  the  little  cur  fought  everybody,  and 
amused  himself  with  cutting  the  hens'  necks  off  and 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  163 

ripping  up  the  pigs;  in  fact,  you  might  say  he  wal- 
lowed in  blood.  '  He  '11  be  a  famous  soldier,'  said 
Cambremer,  '  he  's  got  the  taste  of  blood.'  Now,  you 
see,"  said  the  fisherman,  "  I  can  look  back  and  remem- 
ber all  that — and  Cambremer,  too,"  he  added,  after 
a  pause.  "  By  the  time  Jacques  Cambremer  was  fif- 
teen or  sixteen  years  of  age  he  had  come  to  be  —  what 
shall  I  say?  —  a  shark.  He  amused  himself  at  Gue- 
rande,  and  was  after  the  girls  at  Savenay.  Then  he 
wanted  money.  He  robbed  his  mother,  who  did  n't 
dare  say  a  word  to  his  father.  Cambremer  was  an  hon- 
est man  who  'd  have  tramped  fifty  miles  to  return  two 
sous  that  any  one  had  overpaid  him  on  a  bill.  At  last, 
one  day  the  mother  was  robbed  of  everything.  During 
one  of  his  father's  fishing-trips  Jacques  carried  off 
all  she  had,  furniture,  pots  and  pans,  sheets,  linen, 
everything ;  he  sold  it  to  go  to  Nantes  and  carry 
on  his  capers  there.  The  poor  mother  wept  day  and 
night.  This  time  it  could  n't  be  hidden  from  the 
father,  and  she  feared  him  —  not  for  herself,  you  may 
be  sure  of  that.  When  Pierre  Cambremer  came  back 
and  saw  furniture  in  his  house  which  the  neighbors  had 
lent  to  his  wife,  he  said,  — 

"  'What  is  all  this?' 

"  The  poor  woman,  more  dead  than  alive,  replied : 

"  'We  have  been  robbed.' 

"  '  Where  is  Jacques? ' 

"  'Jacques  is  off  amusing  himself.' 

"  No  one  knew  where  the  scoundrel  was. 

"  '  He  amuses  himself  too  much,'  said  Pierre. 

"  Six  months  later  the  poor  father  heard   that  his 
son  was  about  to  be  arrested  in  Nantes.     He  walked 


164  A  Drama  on  the.  Seashore. 

there  on  foot,  which  is  faster  than  by  sea,  put  his 
hands  on  his  son,  and  compelled  him  to  return  home. 
Once  here,  he  did  not  ask  him,  '  What  have  you 
done  ?  '  but  he  said  :  — 

'"If  you  do  not  conduct  yourself  properly  at  home 
with  your  mother  and  me,  and  go  fishing,  and  behave 
like  an  honest  man,  you  and  I  will  have  a  reckoning.' 

"The  crazy  fellow,  counting  on  his  parent's  folly, 
made  a  face  ;  on  which  Pierre  struck  him  a  blow  which 
sent  Jacques  to  his  bed  for  six  weeks.  The  poor 
mother  nearly  died  of  grief.  One  night,  as  she  was 
fast  asleep  beside  her  husband,  a  noise  awoke  her;  she 
rose  up  quickly,  and  was  stabbed  in  the  arm  with  a 
knife.  She  cried  out  loud,  and  when  Pierre  Cambremer 
struck  a  light  and  saw  his  wife  wounded,  he  thought  it 
was  the  doing  of  robbers,  —  as  if  we  ever  had  any  in 
these  parts,  where  you  might  carry  ten  thousand  francs 
in  gold  from  Croisic  to  Saint-Nazaire  without  ever  be- 
ing asked  what  you  had  in  your  arms.  Pierre  looked 
for  his  son,  but  he  could  not  find  him.  In  the  morning, 
if  that  monster  did  n't  have  the  face  to  come  home, 
saying  he  had  stayed  at  Batz  all  night !  I  should  tell 
you  that  the  mother  had  not  known  where  to  hide  her 
money.  Cambremer  put  his  with  Monsieur  Dupotel  at 
Croisic.  Their  son's  follies  had  by  this  time  cost 
them  so  much  that  they  were  half -ruined,  and  that 
was  hard  for  folks  who  once  had  twelve  thousand 
francs,  and  who  owned  their  island.  No  one  ever 
knew  what  Cambremer  paid  at  Nantes  to  get  his  son 
away  from  there.  Bad  luck  seemed  to  follow  the 
family.  Troubles  fell  upon  Cambremer's  brother,  he 
needed  help.    Pierre  said,  to  console  him,  that  Jacques 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  165 

and  Perotte  (the  brother's  daughter)  could  be  married. 
Then,  to  help  Joseph  Cambremer  to  earn  his  bread, 
Pierre  took  him  with  him  a-fishing ;  for  the  poor  man 
was  now  obliged  to  live  by  his  daily  labor.  His  wife 
was  dead  of  the  fever,  and  money  was  owing  for 
Perotte's  nursing.  The  wife  of  Pierre  Cambremer 
owed  about  one  hundred  francs  to  divers  persons  for 
the  little  girl,  —  linen,  clothes,  and  what  not,  — and  it 
so  chanced  that  she  had  sewed  a  bit  of  Spanish  gold 
into  her  mattress  for  a  nest-egg  toward  paying  off  that 
money.  It  was  wrapped  in  paper,  and  on  the  paper  was 
written  by  her:  'For  Perotte.'  Jacquette  Brouin  had 
had  a  fine  education ;  she  could  write  like  a  clerk,  and 
had  taught  her  son  to  write  too.  I  can't  tell  you  how  it 
was  that  that  villain  scented  the  gold,  stole  it,  and  went 
off  to  Croisic  to  enjoy  himself.  Pierre  Cambremer,  as 
if  it  was  ordained,  came  back  that  day  in  his  boat ;  as 
he  landed  he  saw  a  bit  of  paper  floating  in  the  water, 
and  he  picked  it  up,  looked  at  it,  and  carried  it  to  his 
wife,  who  fell  down  as  if  dead,  seeing  her  own  writing. 
Cambremer  said  nothing,  but  he  went  to  Croisic,  and 
heard  that  his  son  was  in  a  billiard  room  ;  so  then  he 
went  to  the  mistress  of  the  cafe,  and  said  to  her :  — 

"  '  I  told  Jacques  not  to  use  a  piece  of  gold  with 
which  he  will  pay  you  ;  give  it  back  to  me,  and  I  '11 
give  you  white  money  in  place  of  it.' 

"  The  good  woman  did  as  she  was  told.  Cambremer 
took  the  money  and  just  said  '  Good,'  and  then  he 
went  home.  So  far,  all  the  town  knows  that ;  but  now 
comes  what  I  alone  know,  though  others  have  always 
had  some  suspicion  of  it.  As  I  say,  Cambremer  came 
home  ;  he  told  his  wife  to  clean  up  their  chamber,  which 


166  A  Drama  on  the  Seashore. 

is  on  the  lower  floor ;  he  made  a  fire,  lit  two  candles, 
placed  two  chairs  on  one  side  the  hearth,  and  a  stool 
on  the  other.  Then  he  told  his  wife  to  bring  him 
his  wedding-clothes,  and  ordered  her  to  put  on  hers. 
He  dressed  himself.  When  dressed,  he  fetched  his 
brother,  and  told  him  to  watch  before  the  door,  and 
warn  him  of  any  noise  on  either  of  the  beaches,  —  that 
of  Croisic,  or  that  of  Guerande.  Then  he  loaded  a 
gun,  and  placed  it  at  a  corner  of  the  fireplace.  Jacques 
came  home  late ;  he  had  drunk  and  gambled  till  ten 
o'clock,  and  had  to  get  back  by  way  of  the  Carnouf 
point.  His  uncle  heard  his  hail,  and  he  went  over  and 
fetched  him,  but  said  nothing.  When  Jacques  entered 
the  house,  his  father  said  to  him,  — 

"  '  Sit  there,'  pointing  to  the  stool.  'You  are,'  he 
said,  *  before  your  father  and  mother,  whom  you  have 
offended,  and  who  will  now  judge  you.' 

"At  this  Jacques  began  to  howl,  for  his  father's  face 
was  all  distorted.     His  mother  was  rigid  as  an  oar. 

"  '  If  you  shout,  if  you  stir,  if  you  do  not  sit  still  on 
that  stool,'  said  Pierre,  aiming  the  gun  at  him,  '  I 
will  shoot  3tou  like  a  dog.' 

u  Jacques  was  mute  as  a  fish.  The  mother  said 
nothing. 

"'Here,'  said  Pierre,  '  is  a  piece  of  paper  which 
wrapped  a  Spanish  gold  piece.  That  piece  of  gold  was 
in  your  mother's  bed ;  she  alone  knew  where  it  was.  I 
found  that  paper  in  the  water  when  I  landed  here  to- 
day. You  gave  a  piece  of  Spanish  gold  this  night  to 
Mere  Fleurant,  and  your  mother's  piece  is  no  longer 
in  her  bed.     Explain  all  this.' 

"  Jacques  said  he  had  not  taken  his  mother's  money, 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  167 

and  that  the  gold  piece  was  one  he  had  brought  from 
Nantes. 

'"I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  Pierre ;  '  now  prove  it.' 

44  4  I  had  it  all  along.' 

"  '  You  did  not  take  the  gold  piece  belonging  to  your 
mother  ? ' 

44 4  No.' 

"  '  Will  you  swear  it  on  your  eternal  life?  ' 

He  was  about  to  swear ;  his  mother  raised  her  eyes 
to  him,  and  said  :  — 

"  'Jacques,  my  child,  take  care;  do  not  swear  if  it 
is  not  true ;  you  can  repent,  you  can  amend  ;  there  is 
still  time.' 

"  And  she  wept. 

"  '  You  Ure  a  this  and  a  that,'  he  said;  4  you  have 
always  wanted  to  ruin  me.' 

"  Cambremer  turned  white  and  said,  — 

"'Such  language  to  your  mother  increases  your 
crime.     Come,  to  the  point !     Will  you  swear  ? ' 

44 'Yes.' 

444  Then,'  Pierre  said,  4  was  there  upon  your  gold 
piece  the  little  cross  which  the  sardine  merchant  who 
paid  it  to  me  scratched  on  ours  ? ' 

44  Jacques  broke  down  and  wept. 

44  4  Enough,'  said  Pierre.  4  I  shall  not  speak  to  you 
of  the  crimes  you  have  committed  before  this.  I  do 
not  choose  that  a  Cambremer  should  die  on  a  scaffold. 
Say  your  prayers  and  make  haste.  A  priest  is  coming 
to  confess  you.' 

44  The  mother  had  left  the  room  ;  she  could  not  hear 
her  son  condemned.  After  she  had  gone,  Joseph  Cam- 
bremer, the  uncle,  brought  in  the  rector  of  Piriac,  to 


168  A  Drama  on  the  Seashore. 

whom  Jacques  would  say  nothing.  He  was  shrewd ; 
he  knew  his  father  would  not  kill  him  until  he  had 
made  his  confession. 

"  '  Thank  you,  and  excuse  us,'  said  Cambremer  to 
the  priest,  when  he  saw  Jacques'  obstinacy.  '  I 
wished  to  give  a  lesson  to  my  son,  and  will  ask  you  to 
say  nothing  about  it.  As  for  you,'  he  said  to  Jacques, 
'  if  you  do  not  amend,  the  next  offence  you  commit 
will  be  your  last ;  I  shall  end  it  without  confession.' 

"  And  he  sent  him  to  bed.  The  lad  thought  he  could 
still  get  round  his  father.  He  slept.  His  father 
watched.  When  he  saw  that  his  son  was  soundly 
asleep,  he  covered  his  mouth  with  tow,  blindfolded 
him  tightly,  bound  him  hand  and  foot — 'He  raged, 
he  wept  blood,'  my  mother  heard  Cambremer  say  to 
the  lawyer.  The  mother  threw  herself  at  the  father's 
feet. 

"'He  is  judged  and  condemned,'  replied  Pierre; 
'  you  must  now  help  me  to  carry  him  to  the  boat.' 

She  refused  ;  and  Cambremer  carried  him  alone  ;  he 
laid  him  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  tied  a  stone  to  his 
neck,  took  the  oars  and  rowed  out  of  the  cove  to  the 
open  sea,  till  he  came  to  the  rock  where  he  now  is. 
"When  the  poor  mother,  who  had  come  up  here  with 
her  brother-in-law,  cried  out,  '  Mercy!  mercy! '  it  was 
like  throwing  a  stone  at  a  wolf.  There  was  a  moon, 
and  she  saw  the  father  casting  her  son  into  the  water ; 
her  son,  the  child  of  her  womb,  and  as  there  was  no 
wind,  she  heard  Blouf!  and  then  nothing  —  neither 
sound  nor  bubble.  Ah !  the  sea  is  a  fine  keeper  of 
what  it  gets.  Rowing  inshore  to  stop  his  wife's  cries, 
Cambremer  found   her   half-dead.     The  two  brothers 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  169 

could  n't  carry  her  the  whole  distance  home,  so  they 
had  to  put  her  into  the  boat  which  had  just  served  to 
kill  her  son,  and  they  rowed  back  round  the  tower  by 
the  channel  of  Croisic.  Well,  well !  the  belle  Brouin, 
as  they  called  her,  did  n't  last  a  week.  She  died 
begging  her  husband  to  burn  that  accursed  boat. 
Oh !  he  did  it.  As  for  hirn,  he  became  I  don't  know 
what ;  he  staggered  about  like  a  man  who  can't  carry 
his  wine.  Then  he  went  away  and  was  gone  ten  days, 
and  after  he  returned  he  put  himself  where  you  saw 
him,  and  since  he  has  been  there  he  has  never  said  one 
word." 

The  fisherman  related  this  history  rapidly  and  more 
simply  than  I  can  write  it.  The  lower  classes  make 
few  comments  as  they  relate  a  thing ;  they  tell  the 
fact  that  strikes  them,  and  present  it  as  they  feel  it. 
This  tale  was  made  as  sharply  incisive  as  the  blow  of 
an  axe. 

"  I  shall  not  go  to  Batz,"  said  Pauline,  when  we 
came  to  the  upper  shore  of  the  lake. 

We  returned  to  Croisic  by  the  salt  marshes,  through 
the  labyrinth  of  which  we  were  guided  by  our  fisherman, 
now  as  silent  as  ourselves.  The  inclination  of  our 
souls  was  changed.  We  were  both  plunged  into  gloomy 
reflections,  saddened  by  the  recital  of  a  drama  which 
explained  the  sudden  presentiment  which  had  seized  us 
on  seeing  Cambremer.  Each  of  us  had  enough  knowl- 
edge of  life  to  divine  all  that  our  guide  had  not  told  of 
that  triple  existence.  The  anguish  of  those  three  be- 
ings rose  up  before  us  as  if  we  had  seen  it  in  a  drama, 
culminating  in  that  of  the  father  expiating  his  crime. 
We  dared  not  look  at  the  rock  where  sat  the  fatal  man 


170  A  Drama  on  the  Seashore. 

who  held  the  whole  countryside  in  awe.  A  few  clouds 
dimmed  the  skies ;  mists  were  creeping  up  from  the 
horizon.  We  walked  through  a  landscape  more  bitterly 
gloomy  than  any  our  eyes  had  ever  rested  on,  a  nature 
that  seemed  sickly,  suffering,  covered  with  salty  crust, 
the  eczema,  it  might  be  called,  of  earth.  Here,  the 
soil  was  mapped  out  in  squares  of  unequal  size  and 
shape,  all  encased  with  enormous  ridges  or  embank- 
ments of  gray  earth  and  filled  with  water,  to  the  sur- 
face of  which  the  salt  scum  rises.  These  gullies,  made 
by  the  hand  of  man,  are  again  divided  by  causeways, 
along  which  the  laborers  pass,  armed  with  long  rakes, 
with  which  they  drag  this  scum  to  the  bank,  heaping  it 
on  platforms  placed  at  equal  distances  when  the  salt 
is  fit  to  handle. 

For  two  hours  we  skirted  the  edge  of  this  melancholy 
checkerboard,  where  salt  has  stifled  all  forms  of  vege- 
tation, and  where  no  one  ever  comes  but  a  few  palu- 
diers,  the  local  name  given  to  the  laborers  of  the  salt 
marshes.  These  men,  or  rather  this  clan  of  Bretons, 
wear  a  special  costume  :  a  white  jacket,  something  like 
that  of  brewers.  They  marry  among  themselves. 
There  is  no  instance  of  a  girl  of  the  tribe  having 
ever  married  any  man  who  was  not  a  paludier. 

The  horrible  aspects  of  these  marshes,  these  sloughs, 
the  mud  of  which  was  systematically  raked,  the  dull 
gray  earth  that  the  Breton  flora  held  in  horror,  were  in 
keeping  with  the  gloom  which  filled  our  souls.  When 
we  reached  a  spot  where  we  crossed  an  arm  of  the  sea, 
which  no  doubt  serves  to  feed  the  stagnant  salt-pools, 
we  noticed  with  relief  the  puny  vegetation  which 
sprouted  through  the  sand  of  the  beach.   As  we  crossed, 


A  Drama  on  the  Seashore.  171 

we  saw  the  island  on  which  the  Cambremers  had  lived  ; 
but  we  turned  away  our  heads. 

Arriving  at  the  hotel,  we  noticed  a  billiard-table,  and 
finding  that  it  was  the  only  billiard-table  in  Croisic,  we 
made  our  preparations  to  leave  during  the  night.  The 
next  day  we  went  to  Guerande.  Pauline  was  still  sad, 
and  I  myself  felt  a  return  of  that  fever  of  the  brain 
which  will  destroy  me.  I  was  so  cruelly  tortured  by  the 
visions  that  came  to  me  of  those  three  lives,  that  Pau- 
line said  at  last,  — 

44  Louis,  write  it  all  down  ;  that  will  change  the  nature 
of  the  fever  within  you." 

So  I  have  written  you  this  narrative,  dear  uncle  ;  but 
the  shock  of  such  an  event  has  made  me  lose  the  calm- 
ness I  was  beginning  to  gain  from  sea-bathing  and  our 
stay  in  this  place. 


THE   RED   INN. 


THE    EED     INN. 


TO   MONSIEUR  LE   MARQUIS   DE   CUSTINE. 


In  I  know  not  what  year  a  Parisian  banker,  who  had 
very  extensive  commercial  relations  with  Germany, 
was  entertaining  at  dinner  one  of  those  friends  whom 
men  of  business  often  make  in  the  markets  of  the 
world  through  correspondence ;  a  man  hitherto  per- 
sonally unknown  to  him.  This  friend,  the  head  of  a 
rather  important  house  in  Nuremburg,  was  a  stout 
worthy  German,  a  man  of  taste  and  erudition,  above 
all  a  man  of  pipes,  having  a  fine,  broad,  Nuremburgian 
face,  with  a  square  open  forehead  adorned  by  a  few 
sparse  locks  of  yellowish  hair.  He  was  the  type  of 
the  sons  of  that  pure  and  noble  Germany,  so  fertile  in 
honorable  natures,  whose  peaceful  manners  and  morals 
have  never  been  lost,  even  after  seven  invasions. 

This  stranger  laughed  with  simplicity,  listened  atten- 
tively, and  drank  remarkably  well,  seeming  to  like 
champagne  as  much  perhaps  as  he  liked  his  straw- 
colored  Johannisburger.  His  name  was  Hermann, 
which  is  that  of  most  Germans  whom  authors  bring 
upon   their    scene.       Like    a   man   who   does  nothing 


176  The  Red  Inn. 

frivolously,  he  was  sitting  squarely  at  the  banker's  table 
and  eating  with  that  Teutonic  appetite  so  celebrated 
throughout  Europe,  saying,  in  fact,  a  conscientious 
farewell  to  the  cookery  of  the  great  Careme. 

To  do  honor  to  his  guest  the  master  of  the  house 
had  invited  a  few  intimate  friends,  capitalists  or 
merchants,  and  several  agreeable  and  pretty  women, 
whose  pleasant  chatter  and  frank  manners  were  in 
harmony  with  Germanic  cordiality.  Really,  if  3^011 
could  have  seen,  as  I  saw,  this  joyous  gathering  of 
persons  who  had  drawn  in  their  commercial  claws,  and 
were  speculating  only  on  the  pleasures  of  life,  you  would 
have  found  no  cause  to  hate  usurious  discounts,  or  to 
curse  bankruptcies.  Mankind  can't  always  be  doing 
evil.  Even  in  the  society  of  pirates  one  might  find  a 
few  sweet  hours  during  which  we  could  fancy  their 
sinister  craft  a  pleasure-boat  rocking  on  the  deep. 

"  Before  we  part,  Monsieur  Hermann  will,  I  trust, 
tell  one  more  German    story  to  terrify  us?' 

These  words  were  said  at  dessert  by  a  pale  fair  girl, 
who  had  read,  no  doubt,  the  tales  of  Hoffmann  and  the 
novels  of  Walter  Scott.  She  was  the  only  daughter  of 
the  banker,  a  charming  young  creature  whose  education 
was  then  being  finished  at  the  Gymnase,  the  plays  of 
which  she  adored.  At  this  moment  the  guests  were  in 
that  happy  state  of  laziness  and  silence  which  follows 
a  delicious  dinner,  especially  if  we  have  presumed  too  far 
on  our  digestive  powers.  Leaning  back  in  their  chairs, 
their  wrists  lightly  resting  on  the  edge  of  the  table, 
they  were  indolently  playing  with  the  gilded  blades 
of  their  dessert-knives.  When  a  dinner  comes^to  this 
declining  moment   some   guests   will  be  seen  to  play 


The  Red  Inn.  177 

with  a  pear  seed  ;  others  roll  crumbs  of  bread  between 
their  fingers  and  thumb ;  lovers  trace  indistinct  letters 
with  fragments  of  fruit ;  misers  count  the  stones  on 
their  plate  and  arrange  them  as  a  manager  marshals 
his  supernumeraries  at  the  back  of  the  stage.  These 
are  little  gastronomic  felicities  which  Brillat-Savarin, 
otherwise  so  complete  an  author,  overlooked  in  his 
book.  The  footmen  had  disappeared.  The  dessert 
was  like  a  squadron  after  a  battle  :  all  the  dishes  were 
disabled,  pillaged,  damaged ;  several  were  wandering 
about  the  table,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  the  mistress 
of  the  house  to  keep  them  in  their  places.  Some  of 
the  persons  present  were  gazing  at  pictures  of  Swiss 
scenery,  symmetrically  hung  upon  the  gray-toned 
walls  of  the  dining-room.  Not  a  single  guest  was 
bored ;  in  fact,  I  never  yet  knew  a  man  who  was 
sad  during  his  digestion  of  a  good  dinner.  We  like 
at  such  moments  to  remain  in  quietude,  a  species 
of  middle  ground  between  the  revery  of  a  thinker 
and  the  comfort  of  the  ruminating  animals ;  a  condi- 
tion which  we  may  call  the  material  melancholy  of 
gastronomy. 

So  the  guests  now  turned  spontaneously  to  the  ex- 
cellent German,  delighted  to  have  a  tale  to  listen  to, 
even  though  it  might  prove  of  no  interest.  During 
this  blessed  interregnum  the  voice  of  a  narrator  is  always 
delightful  to  our  languid  senses ;  it  increases  their 
negative  happiness.  I,  a  seeker  after  impressions, 
admired  the  faces  about  me,  enlivened  by  smiles, 
beaming  in  the  light  of  the  wax  candles,  and  some- 
what flushed  by  our  late  good  cheer ;  their  diverse 
expressions  producing  piquant  effects  seen  among  the 

12 


178  The  Red  Inn. 

porcelain  baskets,  the  fruits,  the  glasses,  and  the 
candelabra. 

All  of  a  sudden  ray  imagination  was  caught  by  the 
aspect  of  a  guest  who  sat  directly  in  front  of  me.  He 
was  a  man  of  medium  height,  rather  fat  and  smiling, 
having  the  air  and  manner  of  a  stock-broker,  and 
apparently  endowed  with  a  very  ordinary  mind. 
Hitherto  I  had  scarcely  noticed  him,  but  now  his  face, 
possibly  darkened  by  a  change  in  the  lights,  seemed 
to  me  to  have  altered  its  character ;  it  had  certainly 
grown  ghastly ;  violet  tones  were  spreading  over  it ; 
you  might  have  thought  it  the  cadaverous  head  of  a 
dying  man.  Motionless  as  the  personages  painted  on  a 
diorama,  his  stupefied  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  sparkling 
facets  of  a  cut-glass  stopper,  but  certainly  without 
observing  them  ;  he  seemed  to  be  ingulfed  in  some  weird 
contemplation  of  the  future  or  the  past.  When  I 
had  long  examined  that  puzzling  face  I  began  to  re- 
flect about  it.  "  Is  he  ill?  "  I  said  to  myself.  "  Has 
he  drunk  too  much  wine?  Is  he  ruined- by  a  drop 
in  the  Funds?  Is  he  thinking  how  to  cheat  his 
creditors?  " 

"Look!"  I  said  to  my  neighbor,  pointing  out  to 
her  the  face  of  the  unknown  man,  "  is  that  an  embryo 
bankrupt?" 

"  Oh,  no!  "she  answered,  "he  would  be  much  gayer." 
Then,  nodding  her  head  gracefully,  she  added,  "If 
that  man  ever  ruins  himself  I  '11  tell  it  in  Pekin !  He 
possesses  a  million  in  real  estate.  That 's  a  former 
purveyor  to  the  imperial  armies  ;  a  good  sort  of  man, 
and  rather  original.  He  married  a  second  time  by  way 
of  speculation ;  but  for  all  that  he  makes  his  wife  ex- 


The  Red  Inn. 


tremely  happy.  He  has  a  pretty  daughter,  whom  he  re- 
fused for  many  years  to  recognize ;  but  the  death  of 
his  son,  unfortunately  killed  in  a  duel,  has  compelled 
him  to  take  her  home,  for  he  could  not  otherwise  have 
children.  The  poor  girl  has  suddenly  become  one  of 
the  richest  heiresses  in  Paris,  The  death  of  his  son 
threw  the  poor  man  into  an  agony  of  grief,  which  some- 
times reappears  on  the  surface." 

At  that  instant  the  late  purveyor  raised  his  eyes  and 
rested  them  upon  me ;  that  glance  made  me  quiver,  so 
full  was  it  of  gloomy  thought.  Assuredly,  a  lifetime 
was  contained  in  it.  But  suddenly  his  face  grew 
lively ;  he  picked  up  the  cut-glass  stopper  and  put  it, 
with  a  mechanical  movement,  into  a  decanter  full  of 
water  that  was  near  his  plate,  and  then  he  turned  to 
Monsieur  Hermann  and  smiled.  After  all,  that  man, 
now  beatified  by  gastronomical  enjoyments,  had  n't 
probably  two  ideas  in  his  brain,  and  was  thinking  of 
nothing.  Consequently  I  felt  rather ushamed  of  wast- 
ing my  powers  of  divination  in  animd  vili,  -^-of  a  doltish 
financier.  ^ 

While  I  was  thus  making,  at  a  dead  loss,  these 
phrenological  observations,  the  worthy  German  had 
lined  his  nose  with  a  good  pinch  of  snuff  and  was  now 
beginning  his  tale.  It  would  be  difficult  to  reproduce 
it  in  his  own  language,  with  his  frequent  interruptions 
and  wordy  digressions.  Therefore,  I  now  write  it 
down  in  my  own  way ;  leaving  out  the  faults  of  the 
Nuremburger,  and  taking  only  what  his  tale  may  have 
had  of  interest  and  poesy  with  the  coolness  of  writers 
who  forget  to  put  on  the  title  pages  of  their  books : 
Translated  from  the  German. 


180  The  Red  Inn. 


THOUGHT  AND  ACT. 

Toward  the  end  of  Venderniaire,  year  VII.,  a  repub- 
lican period  which  in  the  present  day  corresponds  to 
October  20,  1799,  two  young  men,  leaving  Bonn  in 
the  early  morning,  had  reached  by  nightfall  the  en- 
virons of  Andernach,  a  small  town  standing  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  Rhine  a  few  leagues  from  Coblentz.  At 
that  time  the  French  army,  commanded  by  Augereau, 
was  manoeuvring  before  the  Austrians,  who  then  occu- 
pied the  right  bank  of  the  river.  The  headquarters  of 
the  Republican  division  was  at  Coblentz,  and  one  of 
the  demi-brigades  belonging  to  Augereau's  corps  was 
stationed  at  Andernach. 

The  two  travellers  were  Frenchmen.  At  sight  of 
their  uniforms,  blue  mixed  with  white  and  faced  with 
red  velvet,  their  sabres,  and  above  all  their  hats  cov- 
ered with  a  green  varnished-cloth  and  adorned  with  a 
tricolor  plume,  even  the  German  peasants  had  recog- 
nized army  surgeons,  a  body  of  men  of  science  and 
merit  liked,  for  the  most  part,  not  only  in  our  own 
army  but  also  in  the  countries  invaded  by  our  troops. 
At  this  period  many  sons  of  good  families  taken  from 
their  medical  studies  by  the  recent  conscription  law 
due  to  General  Jourdan,  had  naturally  preferred  to 
continue  their  studies  on  the  battle-field  rather  than  be 
restricted  to  mere  military  duty,  little  in  keepiug  with 
their  early  education  and  their  peaceful  destinies. 
Men  of  science,  pacific  yet  useful,  these  young  men 
did  an  actual  good  in  the  midst  of  so  much  misery,  and 
formed  a  bond  of  sympathy  with  other  men  of  science 


The  Red  Inn.  181 

in  the  various  countries  through  which  the  cruel  civili- 
zation of  the  Republic  passed. 

The  two  young  men  were  each  provided  with  a  pass 
and  a  commission  as  assistant-surgeon  signed  Coste 
and  Bernadotte ;  and  they  were  on  their  way  to  join 
the  demi-brigade  to  which  they  were  attached.  Both 
belonged  to  moderately  rich  families  in  Beauvais,  a 
town  in  which  the  gentle  manners  and  loyalty  of  the 
provinces  are  transmitted  as  a  species  of  birthright. 
Attracted  to  the  theatre  of  war  before  the  date  at  which 
they  were  required  to  begin  their  functions,  they  had 
travelled  by  diligence  to  Strasburg.  Though  maternal 
prudence  had  only  allowed  them  a  slender  sum  of 
money  they  thought  themselves  rich  in  possessing  a 
few  louis,  an  actual  treasure  in  those  days  when  as- 
signats  were  reaching  their  lowest  depreciation  and 
gold  was  worth  far  more  than  silver.  The  two  young 
surgeons,  about  twenty  years  of  age  at  the  most, 
yielded  themselves  up  to  the  poesy  of  their  situation 
with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  youth.  Between  Strasburg 
and  Bonn  they  had  visited  the  Electorate  and  the  banks 
of  the  Rhine  as  artists,  philosophers,  and  observers. 
When  a  man's  destiny  is  scientific  he  is,  at  their  age, 
a  being  who  is  truly  many-sided.  Even  in  making 
love  or  in  travelling,  an  assistant-surgeon  should  be 
gathering  up  the  rudiments  of  his  fortune  or  his  coming 
fame. 

The  two  young  men  had  therefore  given  themselves 
wholly  to  that  deep  admiration  which  must  affect  all 
educated  men  on  seeing  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  and 
the  scenery  of  Suabia  between  Mayenne  and  Cologne, 
—  a  strong,  rich,  vigorously  varied  nature,  filled  with 


182  The  Red  Inn. 

feudal  memories,  ever  fresh  and  verdant,  yet  retaining 
at  all  points  the  imprints  of  fire  and  sword.  Louis 
XIV.  and  Turenne  have  cauterized  that  beautiful  land. 
Here  and  there  certain  ruins  bear  witness  to  the  pride 
or  rather  the  foresight  of  the  King  of  Versailles,  who 
caused  to  be  pulled  down  the  ancient  castles  that  once 
adorned  this  part  of  Germany.  Looking  at  this  mar- 
vellous country,  covered  with  forests,  where  the  pic- 
turesque charm  of  the  middle  ages  abounds,  though  in 
ruins,  we  are  able  to  conceive  the  German  genius,  its 
revery,  its  mysticism. 

The  stay  of  the  two  friends  at  Bonn  had  the  double 
purpose  of  science  and  pleasure.  The  grand  hospital 
of  the  Gallo-Batavian  army  and  of  Augereau's  division 
was  established  in  the  very  palace  of  the  Elector. 
These  assistant-surgeons  of  recent  date  went  there  to 
see  old  comrades,  to  present  their  letters  of  recommen- 
dation to  their  medical  chiefs,  and  to  familiarize  them- 
selves with  the  first  aspects  of  their  profession.  There, 
as  elsewhere,  they  got  rid  of  a  few  prejudices  to  which 
we  cling  so  fondly  in  favor  of  the  beauties  of  our 
native  land.  Surprised  by  the  aspect  of  the  columns 
of  marble  which  adorn  the  Electoral  Palace,  they  went 
about  admiring  the  grandiose  effects  of  German  archi- 
tecture, and  finding  everywhere  new  treasures  both 
modern  and  antique. 

From  time  to  time  the  highways  along  which  the  two 
friends  rode  at  leisure  on  their  way  to  Andernach,  led 
them  over  the  crest  of  some  granite  hill  that  was 
higher  than  the  rest.  Thence,  through  a  clearing  of 
the  forest  or  cleft  in  the  rocky  barrier,  they  caught 
sudden  glimpses  of  the  Rhine   framed  in  stone  or  fes- 


The  Red  Inn.  183 

tooned  with  vigorous  vegetation.  The  valleys,  the  forest 
paths,  the  trees  exhaled  that  autumnal  odor  which 
induces  to  revery ;  the  wooded  summits  were  begin- 
ning to  gild  and  to  take  on  the  warm  brown  tones  sig- 
nificant of  age  ;  the  leaves  were  falling,  but  the  skies 
were  still  azure  and  the  dry  roads  lay  like  yellow  lines 
along  the  landscape,  just  then  illuminated  by  the 
oblique  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  At  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  Andernach  the  two  friends  walked  their  horses 
in  silence,  as  if  no  war  were  devastating  this  beautiful 
land,  while  they  followed  a  path  made  for  the  goats 
across  the  lofty  walls  of  bluish  granite  between  which 
foams  the  Rhine.  Presently  they  descended  by  one  of 
the  declivities  of  the  gorge,  at  the  foot  of  which  is 
placed  the  little  town,  seated  coquettishly  on  the  banks 
of  the  river  and  offering  a  convenient  port  to  mariners. 

"  Germany  is  a  beautiful  country  !  "  cried  one  of  the 
two  young  men,  who  was  named  Prosper  Magnan,  at 
the  moment  when  he  caught  sight  of  the  painted  houses 
of  Andernach,  pressed  together  like  eggs  in  a  basket, 
and  separated  only  by  trees,  gardens,  and  flowers. 
Then  he  admired  for  a  moment  the  pointed  roofs  with 
their  projecting  eaves,  the  wooden  staircases,  the  gal- 
leries of  a  thousand  peaceful  dwellings,  and  the  vessels 
swaying  to  the  waves  in  the  port. 

[At  the  moment  when  Monsieur  Hermann  uttered 
the  name  of  Prosper  Magnan,  my  opposite  neighbor 
seized  the  decanter,  poured  out  a  glass  of  water,  and 
emptied  it  at  a  draught.  This  movement  having  attracted 
my  attention,  I  thought  I  noticed  a  slight  trembling  of 
the  hand  and  a  moisture  on  the  brow  of  the  capitalist. 

"  What  is  that  man's  name?  "  I  asked  my  neighbor. 


184  The  Red  Inn. 


Taillefer,"  she  replied. 

Do  you  feel  ill?  "  I  said  to  him,  observing  that  this 
strange  personage  was  turning  pale. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  said  with  a  polite  gesture  of 
thanks.  4'  I  am  listening,"  he  added,  with  a  nod  to 
the  guests,  who  were  all  simultaneously  looking  at  him. 

"I  have  forgotten,"  said  Monsieur  Hermann,  "  the 
name  of  the  other  young  man.  But  the  confidences 
which  Prosper  Magnan  subsequently,  made  to  me  en- 
abled me  to  know  that  his  companion  was  dark,  rather 
thin,  and  jovial.  I  will,  if  you  please,  call  him 
Wilhelm,  to  give  greater  clearness  to  the  tale  I  am 
about  to  tell  you." 

The  worthy  German  resumed  his  narrative  after 
having,  without  the  smallest  regard  for  romanticism 
and  local  color,  baptized  the  young  French  surgeon 
with  a  Teutonic  name.] 

By  the  time  the  two  young  men  reached  Andernach 
the  night  was  dark.  Presuming  that  they  would  lose 
much  time  in  looking  for  their  chiefs  and  obtaining 
from  them  a  military  billet  in  a  town  already  full  of 
soldiers,  they  resolved  to  spend  their  last  night  of 
freedom  at  an  inn  standing  some  two  or  three  hundred 
feet  from  Andernach,  the  rich  color  of  which,  em- 
bellished by  the  fires  of  the  setting  sun,  they  had 
greatly  admired  from  the  summit  of  the  hill  above  the 
town.  Painted  entirely  red,  this  inn  produced  a  most 
piquant  effect  in  the  landscape,  whether  by  detaching 
itself  from  the  general  background  of  the  town,  or  by 
contrasting  its  scarlet  sides  with  the  verdure  of  the 
surrounding  foliage,  and  the  gray-blue  tints  of  the 
water.     This  house  owed  its  name,  the  Red  Inn,  to 


The  Red  Inn.  185 

this  external  decoration,  imposed  upon  it,  no  doubt 
from  time  immemorial  by  the  caprice  of  its  founder. 
A  mercantile  superstition,  natural  enough  to  the 
different  possessors  of  the  building,  far-famed  among 
the  sailors  of  the  Rhine,  had  made  them  scrupulous  to 
preserve  the  title. 

Hearing:  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs,  the  master  of  the 
Red  Inn  came  out  upon  the  threshold  of  his  door. 

"  By  heavens  !  gentlemen,"  he  cried,  "  a  little  later 
and  you  'd  have  had  to  sleep  beneath  the  stars,  like  a 
good  many  more  of  3rour  compatriots  who  are  bivouack- 
ing on  the  other  side  of  Andernach.  Here  every 
room  is  occupied.  If  you  want  to  sleep  in  a  good  bed 
I  have  only  my  own  room  to  offer  you.  As  for  your 
horses  I  can  litter  them  down  in  a  corner  of  the  court- 
yard. The  stable  is  full  of  people.  Do  these  gentle- 
men come  from  France?"  he  added  after  a  slight 
pause. 

"  From  Bonn,"  cried  Prosper,  "  and  we  have  eaten 
nothing  since  morning." 

"  Oh  !  as  to  provisions,"  said  the  innkeeper,  nodding 
his  head,  "  people  come  to  the  Red  Inn  for  their 
wedding  feast  from  thirty  miles  round.  You  shall 
have  a  princely  meal,  a  Rhine  fish !  More,  I  need  not 
say." 

After  confiding  their  weary  steeds  to  the  care  of  the 
landlord,  who  vainly  called  to  his  hostler,  the  two 
young  men  entered  the  public  room  of  the  inn.  Thick 
white  clouds  exhaled  by  a  numerous  company  of 
smokers  prevented  them  from  at  first  recognizing  the 
persons  with  whom  they  were  thrown  ;  but  after  sitting 
awhile  near  the  table,  with  the  patience  practised  by 


186  The  Red  Inn. 

philosophical  travellers  who  know  the  inutility  of 
making  a  fuss,  they  distinguished  through  the  vapors 
of  tobacco  the  inevitable  accessories  of  a  German  inn : 
the  stove,  the  clock,  the  pots  of  beer,  the  long  pipes, 
and  here  and  there  the  eccentric  physiognomies  of  Jews, 
or  Germans,  and  the  weather-beaten  faces  of  mariners. 
The  epaulets  of  several  French  officers  were  glittering 
through  the  mist,  and  the  clank  of  spurs  and  sabres 
echoed  incessantly  from  the  brick  floor.  Some  were 
playing  cards,  others  argued,  or  held  their  tongues  and 
ate,  drank,  or  walked  about.  One  stout  little  woman, 
wearing  a  black  velvet  cap,  blue  and  silver  stomacher, 
pincushion,  bunch  of  keys,  silver  buckles,  braided  hair, 
—  all  distinctive  signs  of  the  mistress  of  a  German  inn 
(a  costume  which  has  been  so  often  depicted  in  colored 
prints  that  it  is  too  common  to  describe  here),  — well, 
this  wife  of  the  innkeeper  kept  the  two  friends  alter- 
nately patient  and  impatient  with  remarkable  ability. 

Little  by  little  the  noise  decreased,  the  various 
travellers  retired  to  their  rooms,  the  clouds  of  smoke 
dispersed.  When  places  were  set  for  the  two  young 
men,  and  the  classic  carp  of  the  Rhine  appeared  upon 
the  table,  eleven  o'clock  was  striking  and  the  room  was 
empty.  The  silence  of  night  enabled  the  young 
surgeons  to  hear  vaguely  the  noise  their  horses  made 
in  eating  their  provender,  and  the  murmur  of  the  waters 
of  the  Rhine,  together  with  those  indefinable  sounds 
which  always  enliven  an  inn  when  filled  with  persons 
preparing  to  go  to  bed.  Doors  and  windows  are 
opened  and  shut,  voices  murmur  vague  words,  and  a 
few  interpellations  echo  along  the  passages. 

At   this   moment    of    silence    and    tumult   the    two 


The  Red  Inn.  187 

Frenchmen  and  their  landlord,  who  was  boasting  of 
Andernach,  his  inn,  his  cookery,  the  Rhine  wines,  the 
Republican  army,  and  his  wife,  were  all  three  listen- 
ing with  a  sort  of  interest  to  the  hoarse  cries  of  sailors 
in  a  boat  which  appeared  to  be  coming  to  the  wharf. 
The  innkeeper,  familiar  no  doubt  with  the  guttural 
shouts  of  the  boatmen,  went  out  hastily,  but  presently 
returned  conducting  a  short  stout  man,  behind  whom 
walked  two  sailors  carrying  a  heavy  valise  and  several 
packages.  When  these  were  deposited  in  the  room, 
the  short  man  took  the  valise  and  placed  it  beside  him 
as  he  seated  himself  without  ceremony  at  the  same  table 
as  the  surgeons. 

"  Go  and  sleep  in  your  boat,"  he  said  to  the  boat- 
men, "as  the  inn  is  full.  Considering  all  things,  that 
is  best." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  landlord  to  the  new-comer, 
"  these  are  all  the  provisions  I  have  left,"  pointing  to 
the  supper  served  to  the  two  Frenchmen ;  "  I  have  n't 
so  much  as  another  crust  of  bread  nor  a  bone." 

"  No  sauer-kraut?  " 

"  Not  enough  to  put  in  my  wife's  thimble !  As  I 
had  the  honor  to  tell  }Tou  just  now,  you  can  have  no 
bed  but  the  chair  on  which  you  are  sitting,  and  no 
other  chamber  than  this  public  room." 

At  these  words  the  little  man  cast  upon  the  landlord, 
the  room,  and  the  two  Frenchmen  a  look  in  which 
caution  and  alarm  were  equally  expressed. 

["  Here,"  said  Monsieur  Hermann,  interrupting  him- 
self, "  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  we  have  never  known 
the  real  name  nor  the  history  of  this  man ;  his  papers 
showed  that  he  came   from  Aix-la-Chapelle  ;  he  called 


188  The  Red  Inn. 

himself  Wahlenfer  and  said  that  he  owned  a  rather 
extensive  pin  manufactory  in  the  suburbs  of  Neuwied. 
Like  all  the  manufacturers  of  that  region,  he  wore  a 
surtout  coat  of  common  cloth,  waistcoat  and  breeches 
of  dark  green  velveteen,  stout  boots,  and  a  broad 
leather  belt.  His  face  was  round,  his  manners  frank 
and  cordial ;  but  during  the  evening  he  seemed  un- 
able to  disguise  altogether  some  secret  apprehension 
or,  possibly,  some  anxious  care.  The  innkeeper's 
opinion  has  always  been  that  this  German  merchant 
was  fleeing  his  country.  Later  I  heard  that  his  manu- 
factory had  been  burned  by  one  of  those  unfortunate 
chances  so  frequent  in  times  of  war.  In  spite  of  its 
anxious  expression  the  man's  face  showed  great  kindli- 
ness. His  features  were  handsome;  and  the  whiteness 
of  his  stout  throat  was  well  set  off  by  a  black  cravat,  a 
fact  which  Wilhelm  showed  jestingly  to  Prosper." 

Here  Monsieur  Taillefer  drank  another  glass  of 
water.] 

Prosper  courteously  proposed  that  the  merchant 
should  share  their  supper,  and  Wahlenfer  accepted  the 
offer  without  ceremony,  like  a  man  who  feels  himself 
able  to  return  a  civility.  He  placed  his  valise  on  the 
floor  and  put  his  feet  on  it,  took  off  his  hat  and  gloves 
and  removed  a  pair  of  pistols  from  his  belt ;  the  land- 
lord having  by  this  time  set  a  knife  and  fork  for  him, 
the  three  guests  began  to  satisfy  their  appetites  in 
silence.  The  atmosphere  of  the  room  was  hot  and  the 
flies  were  so  numerous  that  Prosper  requested  the  land- 
lord to  open  the  window  looking  toward  the  outer  gate, 
so  as  to  change  the  air.  This  window  was  barricaded 
by  an  iron  bar,  the  two  ends  of  wrhich  were  inserted 


The  Red  Inn.  189 

into  holes  made  in  the  window  casings.  For  greater 
security,  two  bolts  were  screwed  to  each  shutter. 
Prosper  accidentally  noticed  the  manner  in  which  the 
landlord  managed  these  obstacles  and  opened  the 
window. 

As  I  am  now  speaking  of  localities,  this  is  the  place 
to  describe  to  you  the  interior  arrangements  of  the 
inn ;  for,  on  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the  premises 
depends  an  understanding  of  my  tale.  The  public 
room  in  which  the  three  persons  I  have  named  to 
you  were  sitting,  had  two  outer  doors.  One  opened 
on  the  main  road  to  Andernach,  which  skirts  the 
Rhine.  In  front  of  the  inn  was  a  little  wharf,  to 
which  the  boat  hired  by  the  merchant  for  his  jour- 
ney was  moored.  The  other  door  opened  upon  the 
courtyard  of  the  inn.  This  courtyard  was  surrounded 
by  very  high  walls  and  was  fall,  for  the  time  being, 
of  cattle  and  horses,  the  stables  being  occupied  by 
human  beings.  The  great  gate  leading  into  this  court- 
yard had  been  so  carefully  barricaded  that  to  save 
time  the  landlord  had  brought  the  merchant  and  sailors 
into  the  public  room  through  the  door  opening  on 
the  roadway.  After  having  opened  the  window,  as 
requested  by  Prosper  Magnan,  he  closed  this  door, 
slipped  the  iron  bars  into  their  places  and  ran  the  bolts. 
The  landlord's  room,  where  the  two  young  surgeons 
were  to  sleep,  adjoined  the  public  room,  and  was  sepa- 
rated  by  a  somewhat  thin  partition  from  the  kitchen, 
where  the  landlord  and  his  wife  intended,  probably,  to 
pass  the  night.  The  servant-woman  had  left  the  prem- 
ises to  find  a  lodging  in  some  crib  or  hayloft.  It  is 
therefore  easy  to  see  that  the  kitchen,  the  landlord's 


190  The  Red  Inn. 

chamber,  and  the  public  room  were,  to  some  extent, 
isolated  from  the  rest  of  the  house.  Iu  the  courtyard 
were  two  large  dogs,  whose  deep-toned  barking  showed 
vigilant  and  easily  roused  guardians. 

' '  What  silence  !  and  what  a  beautiful  night !  "  said 
Wilhelm,  looking  at  the  sky  through  the  window,  as  the 
landlord  was  fastening  the  door. 

The  lapping  of  the  river  against  the  wharf  was  the 
only  sound  to  be  heard. 

"Messieurs,"  said  the  merchant,  "permit  me  to 
offer  you  a  few  bottles  of  wine  to  wash  down  the 
carp.  We  '11  ease  the  fatigues  of  the  day  by  drinking. 
From  your  manner  and  the  state  of  your  clothes,  I 
judge  that  you  have  made,  like  me,  a  good  bit  of  a 
journey  to-day." 

The  two  friends  accepted,  and  the  landlord  went  out 
by  a  door  through  the  kitchen  to  his  cellar,  situated,  no 
doubt,  under  this  portion  of  the  building.  When  five 
venerable  bottles  which  he  presently  brought  back  with 
him  appeared  on  the  table,  the  wife  brought  in  the 
rest  of  the  supper.  She  gave  to  the  dishes  and  to  the 
room  generally  the  glance  of  a  mistress,  and  then,  sure 
of  having  attended  to  all  the  wants  of  the  travellers, 
she  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

The  four  men,  for  the  landlord  was  invited  to 
drink,  did  not  hear  her  go  to  bed,  but  later,  during  the 
intervals  of  silence  which  came  into  their  talk,  certain 
strongly  accentuated  snores,  made  the  more  sonorous 
by  the  thin  planks  of  the  loft  in  which  she  had  en- 
sconced herself,  made  the  guests  laugh  and  also  the 
husband.  Towards  midnight,  when  nothing  remained 
on  the  table  but  biscuits,  cheese,  dried  fruit,  and  good 


The  Red  Inn.  191 

wine,  the  guests,  chiefly  the  young  Frenchmen,  became 
communicative.  The  latter  talked  of  their  homes, 
their  studies,  and  of  the  war.  The  conversation  grew 
lively.  Prosper  Magnan  brought  a  few  tears  to  the  mer- 
chant's eyes,  when  with  the  frankness  and  naivete  of 
a  good  and  tender  nature,  he  talked  of  what  his  mother 
must  be  doing  at  that  hour,  while  he  was  sitting  drink- 
ing on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine. 

14 1  can  see  her,"  he  said,  "  reading  her  prayers  be- 
fore she  goes  to  bed.  She  won't  forget  me ;  she  is 
certain  to  say  to  herself,  '  My  poor  Prosper  ;  I  wonder 
where  he  is  now ! '  If  she  has  won  a  few  sous  from 
her  neighbors  —  your  mother,  perhaps,"  he  added, 
nudging  Wilhelm's  elbow  —  u  she  '11  go  and  put  them  in 
the  great  red  earthenware  pot,  where  she  is  accumulat- 
ing a  sum  sufficient  to  buy  the  thirty  acres  adjoining 
her  little  estate  at  Lescheville.  Those  thirty  acres  are 
worth  at  least  sixty  thousand  francs.  Such  fine  fields ! 
Ah !  if  I  had  them  I  'd  live  all  my  days  at  Lescheville, 
without  other  ambition  !  How  my  father  used  to  long 
for  those  thirty  acres  and  the  pretty  brook  which  winds 
through  the  meadows !  But  he  died  without  ever  be- 
ing able  to  buy  them.  Many's  the  time  I've  played 
there !  " 

44  Monsieur  Wahlenfer,  haven't  you  also  your  hoc 
erat  in  votis  ?  "  asked  Wilhelm. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  but  it  came  to  pass,  and  now — " 

The  good  man  was  silent,  and  did  not  finish  his 
sentence. 

44  As  for  me,"  said  the  landlord,  whose  face  was 
rather  flushed,  4'I  bought  a  field  last  spring,  which  I 
had  been  wanting  for  ten  years." 


192  The  Red  Inn. 

They  talked  thus  like  men  whose  tongues  are  loosened 
by  wine,  and  they  each  took  that  friendly  liking  to  the 
others  of  which  we  are  never  stingy  on  a  journey ;  so 
that  when  the  time  came  to  separate  for  the  night, 
Wilhelm  offered  his  bed  to  the  merchant. 

"  You  can  accept  it  without  hesitation,"  he  said, 
"  for  I  can  sleep  with  Prosper.  It  won't  be  the  first, 
nor  the  last  time  either.  You  are  our  elder,  and  we 
ought  to  honor  age  !  " 

"Bah!'  said  the  landlord,  "my  wife's  bed  has 
several  mattresses  ;  take  one  off  and  put  it  on  the 
floor." 

So  saying,  he  went  and  shut  the  window,  making  all 
the  noise  that  prudent  operation  demanded. 

"  I  accept,"  said  the  merchant;  "in  fact  I  will  ad- 
mit," he  added,  lowering  his  voice  and  looking  at  the 
two  Frenchmen,  "  that  I  desired  it.  My  boatmen  seem 
to  me  suspicious.  I  am  not  sorry  to  spend  the  night 
with  two  brave  young  men,  two  French  soldiers,  for, 
between  ourselves,  I  have  a  hundred  thousand  francs 
in  gold  and  diamonds  in  my  valise." 

The  friendly  caution  with  which  this  imprudent  con- 
fidence was  received  by  the  two  young  men,  seemed  to 
reassure  the  German.  The  landlord  assisted  in  taking 
off  one  of  the  mattresses,  and  when  all  was  arranged  for 
the  best  he  bade  them  good-night  and  went  off  to  bed. 

The  merchant  and  the  surgeons  laughed  over  the 
nature  of  their  pillows.  Prosper  put  his  case  of  surgi- 
cal instruments  and  that  of  Wilhelm  under  the  end  of 
his  mattress  to  raise  it  and  supply  the  place  of  a 
bolster,  which  was  lacking.  Wahlenfer,  as  a  measure 
of  precaution,  put  his  valise  under  his  pillow. 


The  Red  Lm.  193 

"  We  shall  both  sleep  on  our  fortune,"  said  Prosper, 
"you,  ou  your  gold;  I,  on  my  instruments.  It  re- 
mains to  be  seen  whether  my  instruments  will  ever 
bring  me  the  gold  you  have  now  acquired." 

"You.  may  hope  so,"  said  the  merchant.  "Work 
and  honesty  can  do  everything ;  have  patience,  how- 
ever." 

Wahlenfer  and  "Willi elm  were  soon  asleep.  Whether 
it  was  that  his  bed  on  the  floor  was  hard,  or  that  his 
great  fatigue  was  a  cause  of  sleeplessness,  or  that 
some  fatal  influence  affected  his  soul,  it  is  certain  that 
Prosper  Magnan  continued  awake.  His  thoughts  un- 
consciously took  an  evil  turn.  His  mind  dwelt  exclu- 
sively on  the  hundred  thousand  francs  which  lay 
beneath  the  merchant's  pillow.  To  Prosper  Magnan  one 
hundred  thousand  francs  was  a  vast  and  ready-made 
fortune.  He  began  to  employ  it  in  a  hundred  different 
ways ;  he  made  castles  in  the  air,  such  as  we  all  make 
with  eager  delight  during  the  moments  preceding  sleep, 
an  hour  when  images  rise  in  our  minds  confusedly, 
and  often,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  thought  acquires 
some  magical  power.  He  gratified  his  mother's  wishes  ; 
he  bought  the  thirty  acres  of  meadow  land  ;  he  mar- 
ried a  young  lady  of  Beauvais  to  whom  his  present 
want  of  fortune  forbade  him  to  aspire.  With  a  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  he  planned  a  lifetime  of  hap- 
piness ;  he  saw  himself  prosperous,  the  father  of  a 
family,  rich,  respected  in  his  province,  and,  possibly, 
mayor  of  Beauvais.  His  brain  heated  ;  he  searched 
for  means  to  turn  his  fictions  to  realities.  He  began 
with  extraordinary  ardor  to  plan  a  crime  theoretically. 
While  fancying  the  death  of  the  merchant  he  saw  dis- 

13 


194  The  Red  Inn. 

tinctly  the  gold  and  the  diamonds.  His  eyes  were 
dazzled  by  them.  His  heart  throbbed.  Deliberation 
was,  undoubtedly,  already  crime.  Fascinated  by  that 
mass  of  gold  he  intoxicated  himself  morally  by  mur- 
derous arguments.  He  asked  himself  if  that  poor 
German  had  any  need  to  live  ;  he  supposed  the  case 
of  his  never  having  existed.  In  short,  he  planned  the 
crime  in  a  manner  to  secure  himself  impunity.  The 
other  bank  of  the  river  was  occupied  by  the  Austrian 
army ;  below  the  windows  lay  a  boat  and  boatman ; 
he  would  cut  the  throat  of  that  man,  throw  the  body 
into  the  Rhine,  and  escape  with  the  valise  ;  gold  would 
buy  the  boatman  and  he  could  reach  the  Austrians. 
He  went  so  far  as  to  calculate  the  professional  ability 
he  had  reached  in  the  use  of  instruments,  so  as  to  cut 
through  his  victim 's  throat  without  leaving  him  the 
chance  for  a  single  cry. 

[Here  Monsieur  Taillefer  wiped  his  forehead  and 
drank  a  little  water.] 

Prosper  rose  slowly,  making  no  noise.  Certain  of 
having  waked  no  one,  he  dressed  himself  and  went 
into  the  public  room.  There,  with  that  fatal  intelli- 
gence a  man  suddenly  finds  on  some  occasions  within 
him,  with  that  power  of  tact  and  will  which  is  never 
lacking  to  prisoners  or  to  criminals  in  whatever  they 
undertake,  he  unscrewed  the  iron  bars,  slipped  them 
from  their  places  without  the  slightest  noise,  placed 
them  against  the  wall,  and  opened  the  shutters,  lean- 
ing heavily  upon  their  hinges  to  keep  them  from  creak- 
ing. The  moon  was  shedding  its  pale  pure  light  upon 
the  scene,  and  he  was  thus  enabled  to  faintly  see  into 
the  room  where  Wilhelm  and  Wahlenfer  were  sleeping. 


The  Red  Inn.  195 

There,  he  told  ine,  he  stood  still  for  a  moment.  The 
throbbing  of  his  heart  was  so  strong,  so  deep,  so 
sonorous,  that  he  was  terrified ;  he  feared  he  could  not 
act  with  coolness  ;  his  hands  trembled  ;  the  soles  of  his 
feet  seem  planted  on  red-hot  coal ;  but  the  execution 
of  his  plan  was  accompanied  by  such  apparent  good 
luck  that  he  fancied  he  saw  a  species  of  predestination 
in  this  favor  bestowed  upon  him  by  fate.  He  opened 
the  window,  returned  to  the  bedroom,  took  his  case  of 
instruments,  and  selected  the  one  most  suitable  to 
accomplish  the  crime. 

"  When  I  stood  by  the  bed,"  he  said  to  me,  "I 
commended  myself  mechanically  to  God." 

At  the  moment  when  he  raised  his  arm  collecting  all 
his  strength,  he  heard  a  voice  as  it  were  within  him  ; 
he  thought  he  saw  a  light.  He  flung  the  instrument 
on  his  own  bed  and  fled  into  the  next  room,  and  stood 
before  the  window.  There,  he  conceived  the  utmost 
horror  of  himself.  Feeling  his  virtue  weak,  fearing 
still  to  succumb  to  the  spell  that  was  upon  him  he 
sprang  out  upon  the  road  and  walked  along  the  bank 
of  the  Rhine,  pacing  up  and  down  like  a  sentinel  before 
the  inn.  Sometimes  he  went  as  far  as  Andernach  in 
his  hurried  tramp ;  often  his  feet  led  him  up  the  slope 
he  had  descended  on  his  way  to  the  inn ;  and  some- 
times he  lost  sight  of  the  inn  and  the  window  he  had 
left  open  behind  him.  His  object,  he  said,  was  to 
weary  himself  and  so  find  sleep. 

But,  as  he  walked  beneath  the  cloudless  skies,  be- 
holding the  stars,  affected  perhaps  by  the  purer  air  of 
night  and  the  melancholy  lapping  of  the  water,  he  fell 
into  a  revery  which  brought  him  back  by  degrees  to 


196  The  Red  Inn. 

sane  moral  thoughts.  Reason  at  last  dispersed  com- 
pletely his  momentary  frenzy.  The  teachings  of  his 
education,  its  religious  precepts,  but  above  all,  so  he 
told  me,  the  remembrance  of  his  simple  life  beneath 
the  parental  roof  drove  out  his  wicked  thoughts.  When 
he  returned  to  the  inn  after  a  long  meditation  to  which 
he  abandoned  himself  on  the  bank  of  the  Rhine,  rest- 
ing his  elbow  on  a  rock,  he  could,  he  said  to  me,  not 
have  slept,  but  have  watched  untempted  beside  millions 
of  gold.  At  the  moment  when  his  virtue  rose  proudly 
and  vigorously  from  the  struggle,  he  knelt  down,  with 
a  feeling  of  ecstasy  and  happiness,  and  thanked  God. 
He  felt  happy,  light-hearted,  content,  as  on  the  day  of 
his  first  communion,  when  he  thought  himself  worthy 
of  the  angels  because  he  had  passed  one  day  without 
sinning  in  thought,  or  word,  or  deed. 

He  returned  to  the  inn  and  closed  the  window  with- 
out fearing  to  make  a  noise,  and  went  to  bed  at  once. 
His  moral  and  physical  lassitude  was  certain  to  bring 
him  sleep.  In  a  very  short  time  after  laying  his  head 
on  his  mattress,  he  fell  into  that  first  fantastic  somno- 
lence which  precedes  the  deepest  sleep.  The  senses 
then  grow  numb,  and  life  is  abolished  by  degrees ; 
thoughts  are  incomplete,  and  the  last  quivering  of  our 
consciousness  seems  like  a  sort  of  revery.  "  How 
heavy  the  air  is  !  "  he  thought ;  "  I  seem  to  be  breathing 
a  moist  vapor."  He  explained  this  vaguely  to  himself 
by  the  difference  which  must  exist  between  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  close  room  and  the  purer  air  by  the  river. 
But  presently  he  heard  a  periodical  noise,  something 
like  that  made  by  drops  of  water  falling  from  a  robinet 
into  a  fountain.     Obeying  a  feeling  of  panic  terror  he 


The  Red  Inn.  197 

was  about  to  rise  and  call  the  innkeeper  and  waken 
Wahlenfer  and  Wilhelm,  but  he  suddenly  remembered, 
alas  !  to  his  great  misfortune,  the  tall  wooden  clock  ; 
he  fancied  the  sound  was  that  of  the  pendulum, 
and  he  fell  asleep  with  that  confused  and  indistinct 
perception. 

["Do  you  want  some  water,  Monsieur  Taillefer?" 
said  the  master  of  the  house,  observing  that  the  banker 
was  mechanically  pouring  from  an  empty  decanter. 

Monsieur  Hermann  continued  his  narrative  after  the 
slight  pause  occasioned  by  this  interruption.] 

The  next  morning  Prosper  Magnan  was  awakened 
by  a  great  noise.  He  seemed  to  hear  piercing  cries, 
and  he  felt  that  violent  shuddering  of  the  nerves  which 
we  suffer  when  on  awaking  we  continue  to  feel  a  pain- 
ful impression  begun  in  sleep.  A  physiological  fact 
then  takes  place  within  us,  a  start,  to  use  the  common 
expression,  which  has  never  been  sufficiently  observed, 
though  it  contains  very  curious  phenomena  for  science. 
This  terrible  agony,  produced,  possibly,  by  the  too 
sudden  reunion  of  our  two  natures  separated  during 
sleep,  is  usually  transient ;  but  in  the  poor  young 
surgeon's  case  it  lasted,  and  even  increased,  causing 
him  suddenly  the  most  awful  horror  as  he  beheld  a  pool 
of  blood  between  Wahlenfer's  bed  and  his  own  mattress. 
The  head  of  the  unfortunate  German  lay  on  the  ground  ; 
his  body  was  still  on  the  bed ;  all  its  blood  had  flowed 
out  by  the  neck. 

Seeing  the  eyes  still  open  but  fixed,  seeing  the  blood 
which  had  stained  his  sheets  and  even  his  hands, 
recognizing  his  own  surgical  instrument  beside  him, 
Prosper   Magnan    fainted    and    fell   into    the   pool   of 


198  The  Red  Inn. 

Wahlenfer's  blood.  "  It  was,"  he  said  tome,  "the 
punishment  of  my  thoughts."  When  he  recovered 
consciousness  he  was  in  the  public  room,  seated  on  a 
chair,  surrounded  by  French  soldiers,  and  in  presence 
of  a  curious  and  observing  crowd.  He  gazed  stupidly 
at  a  Republican  officer  engaged  in  taking  the  testimony 
of  several  witnesses,  and  in  writing  down,  no  doubt, 
the  proces- verbal.  He  recognized  the  landlord,  his 
wife,  the  two  boatmen,  and  the  servant  of  the  Red 
Inn.  The  surgical  instrument  which  the  murderer 
had  used  — 

[Here  Monsieur  Taillefer  coughed,  drew  out  his 
handkerchief  to  blow  his  nose,  and  wiped  his  fore- 
head. These  perfectly  natural  motions  were  noticed 
by  me  only ;  the  other  guests  sat  with  their  eyes  fixed 
on  Monsieur  Hermann,  to  whom  they  were  listening 
with  a  sort  of  avidity.  The  purveyor  leaned  his  elbow 
on  the  table,  put  his  head  into  his  right  hand  and 
gazed  fixedly  at  Hermann.  From  that  moment  he 
showed  no  other  sign  of  emotion  or  interest,  but  his 
face  remained  passive  and  ghastly,  as  it  was  when 
I  first  saw  him  playing  with  the  stopper  of  the 
decanter.  ] 

The  surgical  instrument  which  the  murderer  had 
used  was  on  the  table  with  the  case  containing  the  rest 
of  the  instruments,  together  with  Prosper's  purse  and 
papers.  The  gaze  of  the  assembled  crowd  turned 
alternately  from  these  convicting  articles  to  the  young 
man,  who  seemed  to  be  dying  and  whose  half-ex- 
tinguished eyes  apparently  saw  nothing.  A  confused 
murmur  which  was  heard  without  proved  the  presence 
of  a  crowd,  drawn  to  the  neighborhood  of  the   inn  by 


The  Red  Inn.  199 

the  news  of  the  crime,  and  also  perhaps  by  a  desire  to 
see  the  murderer.  The  step  of  the  sentries  placed 
beneath  the  windows  of  the  public  room  and  the  rattle 
of  their  accoutrements  could  be  heard  above  the  talk 
of  the  populace ;  but  the  inn  was  closed  and  the  court- 
yard was  empty  and  silent. 

Incapable  of  sustaining  the  glance  of  the  officer  who 
was  gathering  the  testimony,  Prosper  Magnan  suddenly 
felt  his  hand  pressed  by  a  man,  and  he  raised  his  eyes 
to  see  who  his  protector  could  be  in  that  crowd  of 
enemies.  He  recognized  by  his  uniform  the  surgeon- 
major  of  the  demi-brigade  then  stationed  at  Andernach. 
The  glance  of  that  man  was  so  piercing,  so  stern,  that 
the  poor  young  fellow  shuddered,  and  suffered  his  head 
to  fall  on  the  back  of  his  chair.  A  soldier  put  vinegar 
to  his  nostrils  and  he  recovered  consciousness.  Never- 
theless his  haggard  eyes  were  so  devoid  of  life  and 
intelligence  that  the  surgeon  said  to  the  officer  after 
feeling  Prosper's  pulse,  — 

"  Captain,  it  is  impossible  to  question  the  man  at 
this  moment." 

"  Very  well !  Take  him  away,"  replied  the  captain, 
interrupting  the  surgeon,  and  addressing  a  corporal  who 
stood  behind  the  prisoner.  "  You  cursed  coward !  "  he 
went  on,  speaking  to  Prosper  in  a  low  voice,  "  try  at 
least  to  walk  firmly  before  these  German  curs,  and 
save  the  honor  of  the  Republic." 

This  address  seemed  to  wake  up  Prosper  Magnan, 
who  rose  and  made  a  few  steps  forward ;  but  when  the 
door  was  opened  and  he  felt  the  fresh  air  and  saw  the 
crowd  before  him,  he  staggered  and  his  knees  gave 
way  under  him. 


200  The  Red  Inn. 

"  This  coward  of  a  sawbones  deserves  a  dozen 
deaths !  Get  on !  "  cried  the  two  soldiers  who  had 
him  in  charge,  lending  him  their  arms  to  support  him. 

"  There  he  is!  — oh,  the  villain  !  the  coward!  Here 
he  is  !     There  he  is  !  " 

These  cries  seemed  to  be  uttered  b}T  a  single  voice, 
the  tumultuous  voice  of  the  crowd  which  followed  him 
with  insults  and  swelled  at  every  step.  During  the 
passage  from  the  inn  to  the  prison,  the  noise  made  by 
the  tramping  of  the  crowd  and  the  soldiers,  the  murmur 
of  the  various  colloquies,  the  sight  of  the  sky,  the  cool- 
ness of  the  air,  the  aspect  of  Andernach  and  the  shim- 
mering of  the  waters  of  the  Rhine,  —  these  impressions 
came  to  the  soul  of  the  young  man  vaguely,  confusedly, 
torpidly,'  like  all  the  sensations  he  had  felt  since  his 
waking.  There  were  moments,  he  said,  when  he 
thought  he  wras  no  longer  living. 

I  was  then  in  prison.  Enthusiastic,  as  wre  all  are  at 
twenty  years  of  age,  I  wished  to  defend  my  country, 
and  I  commanded  a  company  of  free  lances,  which  I 
had  organized  in  the  vicinity  of  Andernach.  A  few 
days  before  these  events  I  had  fallen  plump,  during 
the  night,  into  a  French  detachment  of  eight  hundred 
men.  We  were  two  hundred  at  the  most.  My  scouts 
had  sold  me.  I  was  thrown  into  the  prison  of  Ander- 
nach, and  they  talked  of  shooting  me,  as  a  warning 
to  intimidate  others.  The  French  talked  also  of 
reprisals.  My  father,  however,  obtained  a  reprieve  for 
three  days  to  give  him  time  to  see  General  Augereau, 
whom  he  knew,  and  ask  for  my  pardon,  which  was 
granted.  Thus  it  happened  that  T  saw  Prosper 
Magnan    when   he    was   brought    to    the    prison.      He 


The  Red  Inn.  201 

inspired  me  with  the  profoundest  pity.  Though  pale, 
distracted,  and  covered  with  blood,  his  whole  counte- 
nance had  a  character  of  truth  and  innocence  which 
struck  me  forcibly.  To  me  his  long  fair  hair  and 
clear  blue  eyes  seemed  German.  A  true  image  of  my 
hapless  country,  I  felt  he  was  a  victim  and  not  a 
murderer.  At  the  moment  when  he  passed  beneath 
my  window  he  chanced  to  cast  about  him  the  painful, 
melancholy  smile  of  an  insane  man  who  suddenly  recovers 
for  a  time  a  fleeting  gleam  of  reason.  That  smile  was 
assuredly  not  the  smile  of  a  murderer.  When  I  saw 
the  jailer  I  questioned  him  about  his  new  prisoner. 

"  He  has  not  spoken  since  I  put  him  in  his  cell," 
answered  the  man.  "  He  is  sitting  down  with  his 
head  in  his  hands  and  is  either  sleeping  or  reflecting 
about  his  crime.  The  French  say  he  '11  get  his  reckon- 
ing to-morrow  morning  and  be  shot  in  twenty-four 
hours." 

That  evening  I  stopped  under  the  window  of  the 
prison  during  the  short  time  I  was  allowed  to  take 
exercise  in  the  prison  yard.  We  talked  together,  and 
he  frankly  related  to  me  his  strange  affair,  replying 
with  evident  truthfulness  to  ray  various  questions. 
After  that  first  conversation  I  no  longer  doubted  his 
innocence;  I  asked,  and  obtained  the  favor  of  staving 
several  hours  with  him.  I  saw  him  again  at  intervals, 
and  the  poor  lad  let  me  in  without  concealment  to  all 
his  thoughts.  He  believed  himself  both  innocent  and 
guilty.  Remembering  the  horrible  temptation  which 
he  had  had  the  strength  to  resist,  he  feared  he  might 
have  done  in  sleep,  in  a  fit  of  somnambulism,  the  crime 
he  had  dreamed  of  awake. 


202  The  Red  Inn. 

"  But  your  companion?  "     I  said  to  him.  . 

"Oh!"  he  cried  eagerly.  "  Wilhelm  is  incapable 
of  —  " 

He  did  not  even  finish  his  sentence.  At  that  warm 
defence,  so  full  of  youth  and  manly  virtue,  I  pressed 
his  hand. 

"  When  he  woke,"  continued  Prosper,  "  he  must  have 
been  terrified  and  lost  his  head  ;  no  doubt  he  fled." 

"Without  awaking  you?"  I  said.  "Then  surely 
your  defence  is  easy  ;  Walhenfer's  valise  cannot  have 
been  stolen." 

Suddenly  he  burst  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  he  cried,  "  I  am  innocent!  I  have  not 
killed  a  man !  I  remember  my  dreams.  I  was  play- 
ing at  base  with  my  schoolmates.  I  couldn't  have  cut 
off  the  head  of  a  man  while  I  dreamed  I  was  running." 

Then,  in  spite  of  these  gleams  of  hope,  which  gave 
him  at  times  some  calmness,  he  felt  a  remorse  which 
crushed  him.  He  had,  beyond  all  question,  raised  his 
arm  to  kill  that  man.  He  judged  himself  ;  and  he  felt 
that  his  heart  was  not  innocent  after  committing  that 
crime  in  his  mind. 

"  And  yet,  I  am  good!  "  he  cried.  "  Oh,  my  poor 
mother !  Perhaps  at  this  moment  she  is  cheerfully 
playing  boston  with  the  neighbors  in  her  little  tapestry 
salon.  If  she  knew  that  I  had  raised  my  hand  to 
murder  a  man  —  oh!  she  would  die  of  it!  And  I  am 
in  prison,  accused  of  committing  that  crime  !  If  I  have 
not  killed  a  man,  I  have  certainly  killed  my  mother  !  " 

Saying  these  words  he  wept  no  longer  ;  he  was  seized 
by  that  short  and  rapid  madness  known  to  the  men  of 
Picardy  ;  he  sprang  to  the  wall,  and  if  I  had  not  caught 
him,  he  would  have  dashed  out  his  brains  against  it. 


The  Red  Inn.  203 

"  Wait  for  your  trial,"  I  said.  "  You  are  innocent, 
you  will  certainly  be  acquitted  ;  think  of  your  mother." 

"  My  mother  !  "  lie  cried  frantically,  "  she  will  hear  of 
the  accusation  before  she  hears  anything  else,  —  it  is 
always  so  in  little  towns ;  and  the  shock  will  kill  her. 
Besides,  I  am  not  innocent.  Must  I  tell  you  the  whole 
truth?  I  feel  that  I  have  lost  the  virginity  of  my 
conscience." 

After  that  terrible  avowal  he  sat  down,  crossed  his 
arms  on  his  breast,  bowed  his  head  upon  it,  gazing 
gloomily  on  the  ground.  At  this  instant  the  turnkey 
came  to  ask  me  to  return  to  my  room.  Grieved  to  leave 
my  companion  at  a  moment  when  his  discouragement 
was  so  deep,  I  pressed  him  in  my  arms  with  friendship, 
saying  :  — 

"  Have  patience  ;  all  may  yet  go  well.  If  the  voice 
of  an  honest  man  can  still  your  doubts,  believe  that  I 
esteem  you  and  trust  you.  Accept  my  friendship,  and 
rest  upon  my  heart,  if  you  cannot  find  peace  in  your 
own." 

The  next  morning  a  corporal's  guard  came  to  fetch 
the  young  surgeon  at  nine  o'clock.  Hearing  the  noise 
made  by  the  soldiers,  I  stationed  myself  at  my  window. 
As  the  prisoner  crossed  the  courtyard,  he  cast  his  eyes 
up  to  me.  Never  shall  I  forget  that  look,  full  of 
thoughts,  presentiments,  resignation,  and  I  know  not 
what  sad,  melancholy  grace.  It  was,  as  it  were,  a 
silent  but  intelligible  last  will  by  which  a  man  be- 
queathed his  lost  existence  to  his  only  friend.  The 
night  must  have  been  very  hard,  very  solitary  for  him  ; 
and  yet,  perhaps,  the  pallor  of  his  face  expressed  a 
stoicism  gathered  from  some  new  sense  of  self-respect. 


204  The  Red  Inn. 

Perhaps  he  felt  that  his  remorse  had  purified  him,  and 
believed  that  he  had  blotted  out  his  fault  by  his  anguish 
and  his  shame.  He  now  walked  with  a  firm  step,  and 
since  the  previous  evening  he  had  washed  away  the 
blood  with  which  he  was,  iu voluntarily,  stained. 

"My  hands  must  have  dabbled  in  it  while  I  slept, 
for  I  am  always  a  restless  sleeper,"  he  had  said  to  me 
in  tones  of  horrible  despair. 

I  learned  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  appear  before 
the  council  of  war.  The  division  was  to  march  on  the 
following  morning,  and  the  commanding-officer  did  not 
wish  to  leave  Andernach  without  inquiry  into  the  crime 
on  the  spot  where  it  had  been  committed.  I  remained 
in  the  utmost  anxiety  during  the  time  the  council  lasted. 
At  last,  about  mid-day,  Prosper  Magnan  was  brought 
back.  I  was  then  taking  my  usual  walk ;  he  saw  me, 
and  came  and  threw  himself  into  my  arms. 

"  Lost!  "  he  said,  "  lost,  without  hope!  Here,  to  all 
the  world,  I  am  a  murderer."  He  raised  his  head 
proudly.  "  This  injustice  restores  to  me  my  innocence. 
My  life  would  always  have  been  wretched ;  my  death 
leaves  me  without  reproach.    But  is  there  a  future?  " 

The  whole  eighteenth  century  was  in  that  sudden 
question.     He  remained  thoughtful. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said  to  him,  "  how  you  answered.  What 
did  they  ask  you  ?  Did  you  not  relate  the  simple  facts 
as  you  told  them  to  me  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  fixedly  for  a  moment ;  then,  after 
that  awful  pause,  he  answered  with  feverish  excite- 
ment :  — 

"  First  they  asked  me,  '  Did  you  leave  the  inn  during 
the  night?'  I  said, 'Yes.'  'How?'  I  answered,  '  By  the 


The  Red  Inn.  205 

window.'  'Then  you  must  have  taken  great  precautions  ; 
the  innkeeper  heard  no  noise.'  I  was  stupefied.  The  sail- 
ors said  they  saw  me  walking,  first  to  Andernach,  then 
to  the  forest.  I  made  many  trips,  they  said,  no  doubt 
to  bury  the  gold  and  diamonds.  The  valise  had  not 
been  found.  My  remorse  still  held  me  dumb.  When 
I  wanted  to  speak,  a  pitiless  voice  cried  out  to  me, 
4  You  meant  to  commit  that  crime ! '  All  was  against  me, 
even  myself.  They  asked  me  about  my  comrade,  and 
I  completely  exonerated  him.  Then  they  said  to  me  : 
4  The  crime  must  lie  between  you,  your  comrade,  the 
innkeeper,  and  his  wife.  This  morning  all  the  windows 
and  doors  were  found  securely  fastened.  At  those 
words,'  continued  the  poor  fellow,  'I  had  neither  voice, 
nor  strength,  nor  soul  to  answer.  More  sure  of  my 
comrade  than  I  could  be  of  myself,  I  could  not  accuse 
him.  I  saw  that  we  were  both  thought  equally  guilty 
of  the  murder,  and  that  I  was  considered  the  most 
clumsy.  I  tried  to  explain  the  crime  by  somnambu- 
lism, and  so  protect  my  friend  ;  but  there  I  rambled 
and  contradicted  myself.  No,  I  am  lost.  I  read  my 
condemnation  in  the  eyes  of  my  judges.  They  smiled 
incredulously.  All  is  over.  No  more  uncertainty. 
To-morrow  I  shall  be  shot.  I  am  not  thinking  of  mv- 
self,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause,  "but  of  my  poor 
mother."  Then  he  stopped,  looked  up  to  heaven,  and 
shed  no  tears ;  his  eyes  were  dry  and  strongly  con- 
vulsed.  "  Frederic  —  " 

[u  Ah !  true,"  cried  Monsieur  Hermann,  with  an  air 
of  triumph.  "Yes,  the  other's  name  was  Frederic, 
Frederic!     I  remember  now!" 

My  neighbor  touched  my  foot,  and  made  me  a  sign 


206  The  Red  Inn. 

to  look  at  Monsieur  Taillefer.  The  former  purveyor 
had  negligently  dropped  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  but 
between  the  interstices  of  his  fingers  we  thought  we 
caught  a  darkling  flame  proceeding  from  them. 

"Hein?"  she  said  in  my  ear,  "  what  if  his  name 
were  Frederic  ?  " 

I  answered  with  a  glance,  which  said  to  her  : 
"  Silence!  " 

Hermann  continued  :] 

"Frederic!"  cried  the  young  surgeon,  "Frederic 
basely  deserted  me.  He  must  have  been  afraid. 
Perhaps  he  is  still  hidden  in  the  inn,  for  our  horses 
were  both  in  the  courtyard  this  morning.  What  an 
incomprehensible  mystery !  "  he  went  on,  after  a 
moment's  silence.  "Somnambulism!  somnambulism? 
I  never  had  but  one  attack  in  my  life,  and  that  was 
when  I  was  six  years  old.  Must  I  go  from  this  earth," 
he  cried,  striking  the  ground  with  his  foot,  "  carrying 
with  me  all  there  is  of  friendship  in  the  world  ?  Shall 
I  die  a  double  death,  doubting  a  fraternal  love  begun 
when  we  were  only  five  years  old,  and  continued 
through  school  and  college  ?     Where  is  Frederic  ?  J 

He  wept.  Can  it  be  that  we  cling  more  to  a  senti- 
ment than  to  life? 

"  Let  us  go  in,"  he  said  ;  "  I  prefer  to  be  in  my  cell. 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  seen  weeping.  I  shall  go  coura- 
geously to  death,  but  I  cannot  play  the  heroic  at  all 
moments  ;  I  own  I  regret  my  beautiful  young  life.  All 
last  night  I  could  not  sleep ;  I  remembered  the  scenes 
of  my  childhood  ;  I  fancied  I  was  running  in  the  fields. 
Ah!  I  had  a  future,"  he  said,  suddenly  interrupting  him- 
self;  "  and  now,  twelve  men,  a  sub-lieutenant  shouting 


The  Red  Inn.  207 

1  Carry- arms,  aim,  fire ! '  a  roll  of  drums,  and  infamy  ! 
that 's  my  future  now.  Oh  !  there  must  be  a  God,  or  it 
would  all  be  too  senseless." 

Then  he  took  me  in  his  arms  and  pressed  me  to 
him  with  all  his  strength. 

"  You  are  the  last  man,  the  last  friend  to  whom  I 
can  show  my  soul.  You  will  be  set  at  liberty,  you 
will  see  your  mother !  I  don't  know  whether  you  are 
rich  or  poor,  but  no  matter !  you  are  all  the  world  to 
me.  They  won't  fight  always,  ceux-ci.  Well,  when 
there  's  peace,  will  you  go  toBeauvais?  If  my  mother 
has  survived  the  fatal  news  of  my  death,  you  will  find 
her  there.  Say  to. her  the  comforting  words,  '  He  was 
innocent ! '  She  will  believe  you.  I  am  going  to 
write  to  her  ;  but  you  must  take  her  my  last  look  ;  }-ou 
must  tell  her  that  you  were  the  last  man  whose  hand  I 
pressed.  Oh,  she  '11  love  you,  the  poor  woman  !  you, 
my  last  friend.  Here,"  he  said  after  a  moment's 
silence,  during  which  he  was  overcome  by  the  weight 
of  his  recollections,  "  all,  officers  and  soldiers,  are 
unknown  to  me  ;  I  am  an  object  of  horror  to  them. 
If  it  were  not  for  you  my  innocence  would  be  a  secret 
between  God  and  myself." 

I  swore  to  sacredly  fulfil  his  last  wishes.  My 
words,  the  emotion  I  showed  touched  him.  Soon  after 
that  the  soldiers  came  to  take  him  again  before  the 
council  of  war.  He  was  condemned  to  death.  I  am 
ignorant  of  the  formalities  that  followed  or  accom- 
panied this  judgment,  nor  do  I  know  whether  the 
young  surgeon  defended  his  life  or  not ;  but  he  ex- 
pected to  be  executed  on  the  following  day,  and  he 
spent  the  night  in  writing  to  his  mother. 


208  The  Red  Inn. 

"  We  shall  both  be  free  to-day,"  he  said  smiling, 
when  I  went  to  see  him  the  next  morning.  "  I  am  told 
that  the  general  has  signed  your  pardon." 

I  was  silent,  and  looked  at  him  closely  so  as  to 
carve  his  features,  as  it  were,  on  my  memory.  Pres- 
ently an  expression  of  disgust  crossed  his  face. 

"I  have  been  very  cowardly,"  he  said.  "During 
all  last  night  I  begged  for  mercy  of  these  walls,"  and 
he  pointed  to  the  sides  of  his  dungeon.  "  Yes,  yes,  I 
howled  with  despair,  I  rebelled,  I  suffered  the  most 
awful  moral  agony  —  I  was  alone  !  Now  I  think  of 
what  others  will  say  of  me.  Courage  is  a  garment  to 
put  on.    I  desire  to  go  decently  to  death,  therefore  —  " 

"Oh,  stop!  stop!"  cried  the  young  lady  who  had 
asked  for  this  history,  interrupting  the  narrator  sud- 
denly. "  Say  no  more  ;  let  me  remain  in  uncertainty 
and  believe  that  he  was  saved.  If  I  hear  now  that  he 
was  shot  I  shall  not  sleep  all  night.  To-morrow  you 
shall  tell  me  the  rest." 

We   rose   from    table.     My   neighbor   in   accepting 
Monsieur  Hermann's  arm,  said  to  him,  — 
"  I  suppose  he  was  shot,  was  he  not?" 
"  Yes.     I  was  present  at  the  execution." 
"  Oh  !  monsieur,"  she  said,  u  how  could  you  —  " 
"He   desired   it,   madame.     There   was   something 
really   dreadful   in    following   the  funeral  of  a  living 
man,   a  man  my  heart  cared  for,  an  innocent  man ! 
The  poor  young  fellow  never  ceased  to  look  at  me. 
He  seemed  to  live  only  in  me.     He  wanted,   he  said, 
that  I  should  carry  to  his  mother  his  last  sigh." 
"And  did  you?" 


The  Red  Inn.  209 

'*  At  the  peace  of  Amiens  I  went  to  France,  for  the 
purpose  of  taking  to  the  mother  those  blessed  words, 
'  He  was  innocent.'  I  religiously  undertook  that  pil- 
grimage. But  Madame  Magnan  had  died  of  consump- 
tion. It  was  not  without  deep  emotion  that  I  burned 
the  letter  of  which  I  was  the  bearer.  You  will  per- 
haps smile  at  my  German  imagination,  but  I  see  a 
drama  of  sad  sublimity  in  the  eternal  secrecy  which 
engulfed  those  parting  words  cast  between  two  graves, 
unknown  to  all  creation,  like  the  cry  uttered  in  a  desert 
by  some  lonely  traveller  whom  a  lion  seizes." 

"  And  if,"  I  said,  interrupting  him,  "  you  were 
brought  face  to  face  with  a  man  now  in  this  room,  and 
were  told,  '  This  is  the  murderer ! '  would  not  that  be 
another  drama?     And  what  would  you  do?  " 

Monsieur  Hermann  looked  for  his  hat  and  went 
away. 

"  You  are  behaving  like  a  young  man,  and  very 
heedlessly,"  said  my  neighbor.  "  Look  at  Taillef er ! 
—  there,  seated  on  that  sofa  at  the  corner  of  the  fire- 
place. Mademoiselle  Fanny  is  offering  him  a  cup  of 
coffee.  He  smiles.  Would  a  murderer  to  whom  that 
tale  must  have  been  torture,  present  so  calm  a  face? 
Is  n't  his  whole  air  patriarchal?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  go  and  ask  him  if  he  went  to  the  war  in 
Germany,"  I  said. 

"Why  not?" 

And  with  that  audacity  which  is  seldom  lacking  to 
women  when  some  action  attracts  them,  or  their  minds 
are  impelled  by  curiosity,  my  neighbor  went  up  to  the 
purveyor. 

"  Were  you  ever  in  Germany?  "  she  asked. 

14 


210  The  Red  Inn. 

Taillefer  came  near  dropping  his  cup  and  saucer. 

"I,  madame?     No,  never." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  Taillefer;  "  said  our 
host,  interrupting  him.  "  Were  not  you  in  the  com- 
missariat during  the  campaign  of  Wagram  ?  " 

"  Ah,  true  !  "  replied  Taillefer,  "  I  was  there  at  that 
time." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  my  neighbor,  returning 
to  my  side  ;   "  that's  a  good  man." 

"Well,"  I  cried,  "  before  the  end  of  this  evening,  I 
will  hunt  that  murderer  out  of  the  slough  in  which  he 
is  hiding." 

Every  day,  before  our  eyes,  a  moral  phenomenon  of 
amazing  profundity  takes  place  which  is,  nevertheless, 
so  simple  as  never  to  be  noticed.  If  two  men  meet  in 
a  salon,  one  of  whom  has  the  right  to  hate  or  despise 
the  other,  whether  from  a  knowledge  of  some  private 
and  latent  fact  which  degrades  him,  or  of  a  secret  con- 
dition, or  even  of  a  coming  revenge,  those  two  men 
divine  each  other's  souls,  and  are  able  to  measure  the 
gulf  which  separates  or  ought  to  separate  them.  They 
observe  each  other  unconsciously ;  their  minds  are 
preoccupied  by  themselves ;  through  their  looks,  their 
gestures,  an  indefinable  emanation  of  their  thought 
transpires;  there's  a  magnet  between  them.  I  don't 
know  which  has  the  strongest  power  of  attraction, 
vengeance  or  crime,  hatred  or  insult.  Like  a  priest 
wrho  cannot  consecrate  the  host  in  presence  of  an  evil 
spirit,  each  is  ill  at  ease  and  distrustful ;  one  is  polite, 
the  other  surly,  but  I  know  not  which ;  one  colors  or 
turns  pale,  the  other  trembles.  Often  the  avenger  is 
as  cowardly  as  the  victim.     Few  men  have  the  courage 


The  Red  Inn.  211 

to  invoke  an  evil,  even  when  just  or  necessary,  and 
men  are  silent  or  forgive  a  wrong  from  hatred  of  up- 
roar or  fear  of  some  tragic  ending. 

This  introsusception  of  our  souls  and  our  sentiments 
created  a  mysterious  struggle  between  Taillefer  and 
myself.  Since  the  first  inquiry  I  had  put  to  him  during 
Monsieur  Hermann's  narrative,  lie  had  steadily  avoided 
my  eye.  Possibly  he  avoided  those  of  all  the  other 
guests.  He  talked  with  the  youthful,  inexperienced 
daughter  of  the  banker,  feeling,  no  doubt,  like  many 
other  criminals,  a  need  of  drawing  near  to  innocence, 
hoping  to  find  rest  there.  But,  though  I  was  a  long 
distance  from  him,  I  heard  him,  and  my  piercing  eye 
fascinated  his.  When  he  thought  he  could  watch  me 
unobserved  our  eyes  met,  and  his  eyelids  dropped 
immediately. 

Weary  of  this  torture,  Taillefer  seemed  determined 
to  put  an  end  to  it  by  sitting  down  at  a  card-table. 
I  at  once  went  to  bet  on  his  adversary ;  hoping  to  lose 
my  money.  The  wish  was  granted ;  the  player  left 
the  table  and  I  took  his  place,  face  to  face  with  the 
murderer. 

"  Monsieur,"  I  said,  while  he  dealt  the  cards,  "  may 
I  ask  if  you  are  Monsieur  Frederic  Taillefer,  whose 
family  I  know  very  well  at  Beauvais  ?  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur,"  he  answered. 

He  dropped  the  cards,  turned  pale,  put  his  hands  to 
his  head  and  rose,  asking  one  of  the  bettors  to  take  his 
hand. 

"  It  is  too  hot  here,"  he  cried  ;   "  I  fear  —  " 

He  did  not  end  the  sentence.  His  face  expressed 
intolerable   suffering,    and  he  went  out   hastily.     The 


212  The  Red  Inn. 

master  of  the  house  followed  him  and  seemed  to  take 
an  anxious  interest  in  his  condition.  My  neighbor  and 
I  looked  at  each  other,  but  I  saw  a  tinge  of  bitter  sad- 
ness or  reproach  upon  her  countenance. 

"Do  you  think  your  conduct  is  merciful?"  she 
asked,  drawing  me  to  the  embrasure  of  a  window 
just  as  I  was  leaving  the  card-table,  having  lost  all 
my  money.  "  Would  you  accept  the  power  of  reading 
hearts?  Why  not  leave  things  to  human  justice  or 
divine  justice?  We  may  escape  one  but  we  cannot 
escape  the  other.  Do  you  think  the  privileges  of  a 
judge  of  the  court  of  assizes  so  much  to  be  envied? 
You  have  almost  done  the  work  of  an  executioner." 

"  After  sharing  and  stimulating  my  curiosity,  why 
are  you  now  lecturing  me  on  morality?" 

"  You  have  made  me  reflect,"  she  answered. 

"  So,  then,  peace  to  villains,  war  to  the  sorrowful,  and 
let 's  deify  gold  !  However,  we  will  drop  the  subject," 
I  added,  laughing.  "  Do  you  see  that  young  girl  who 
is  just  entering  the  salon?  " 

"Yes,  what  of  her?" 

"  I  met  her,  three  days  ago,  at  the  ball  of  the 
Neapolitan  ambassador,  and  I  am  passionately  in  love 
with  her.  For  pity's  sake  tell  me  her  name.  No  one 
was  able  —  " 

"  That  is  Mademoiselle  Victorine  Taillefer." 

I  grew  dizzy. 

"  Her  step-mother,"  continued  my  neighbor,  "  has 
lately  taken  her  from  a  convent,  where  she  was  finish- 
ing, rather  late  in  the  day,  her  education.  For  a  long 
time  her  father  refused  to  recognize  her.  She  comes 
here  for  the  first  time.  She  is  very  beautiful  and  very 
rich. 


The  Red  Inn.  213 

These  words  were  accompanied  by  a  sardonic  smile. 

At  this  moment  we  heard  violent,  but  smothered 
outcries ;  they  seemed  to  come  from  a  neighboring 
apartment  and  to  be  echoed  faintly  back  through  the 
garden. 

"Isn't  that  the  voice  of  Monsieur  Taillefer?"  I 
said. 

We  gave  our  full  attention  to  the  noise  ;  a  frightful 
moaning  reached  our  ears.  The  wife  of  the  banker 
came  hurriedly  towards  us  and  closed  the  window. 

"  Let  us  avoid  a  scene,"  she  said.  "  If  Mademoiselle 
Taillefer  hears  her  father,  she  might  be  thrown  into 
hysterics." 

The  banker  now  re-entered  the  salon,  looked  round 
for  Victorine,  and  said  a  few  words  in  her  ear. 
Instantly  the  young  girl  uttered  a  cry,  ran  to  the 
door,  and  disappeared.  This  event  produced  a  great 
sensation.  The  card-players  paused.  Every  one  ques- 
tioned his  neighbor.  The  murmur  of  voices  swelled, 
and  groups  gathered. 

"  Can  Monsieur  Taillefer  be  —  "  I  began. 

' '  —  dead  ?  "  said  my  sarcastic  neighbor.  ' '  You  would 
wear  the  gayest  mourning,  I  fancy  !  " 

"  But  what  has  happened  to  him?  " 

"  The  poor  dear  man,"  said  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
"  is  subject  to  attacks  of  a  disease  the  name  of  which 
I  never  can  remember,  though  Monsieur  Brousson  has 
often  told  it  to  me ;  and  he  has  just  been  seized  with 
one." 

"What  is  the  nature  of  the  disease?"  asked  an 
examining-judge. 

"  Oh,  it  is  something  terrible,  monsieur,"  she  replied. 


214  The  Red  Inn. 

"The  doctors  know  no  remedy.  It  causes  the  most 
dreadful  suffering.  One  day,  while  the  unfortunate 
man  was  staying  at  my  country-house,  he  had  an 
attack,  and  I  was  obliged  to  go  away  and  stay  with  a 
neighbor  to  avoid  hearing  him  ;  his  cries  were  terrible ; 
he  tried  to  kill  himself  ;  his  daughter  was  obliged  to  have 
him  put  into  a  strait-jacket  and  fastened  to  his  bed. 
The  poor  man  declares  there  are  live  animals  in  his 
head  gnawing  his  brain ;  every  nerve  quivers  with 
horrible  shooting  pains,  and  he  writhes  in  torture.  He 
suffers  so  much  in  his  head  that  he  did  not  even  feel 
the  moxas  they  used  formerly  to  apply  to  relieve  it ; 
but  Monsieur  Brousson,  who  is  now  his  physician,  has 
forbidden  that  remedy,  declaring  that  the  trouble  is  a 
nervous  affection,  an  inflammation  of  the  nerves,  for 
which  leeches  should  be  applied  to  the  neck,  and 
opium  to  the  head.  As  a  result,  the  attacks  are  not 
so  frequent ;  they  appear  now  only  about  once  a  year, 
and  always  late  in  the  autumn.  When  he  recovers, 
Taillefer  says  repeatedly  that  he  would  far  rather  die 
than  endure  such  torture." 

"  Then  he  must  suffer  terribly  !  "  said  a  broker,  con- 
sidered a  wit,  who  was  present. 

"  Oh,"  continued  the  mistress  of  the  house,  "  last 
year  he  nearly  died  in  one  of  these  attacks.  He  had 
gone  alone  to  his  country-house  on  pressing  business. 
For  want,  perhaps,  of  immediate  help,  he  lay  twenty- 
two  hours  stiff  and  stark  as  though  he  were  dead.  A 
very  hot  bath  was  all  that  saved  him." 

"  It  must  be  a  species  of  lockjaw,"  said  one  of  the 
guests. 

"I  don't   know,"    she   answered.       "He    got    the 


The  Red  Inn.  215 

disease  in  the  army  nearly  thirty  years  ago.  He  says 
it  was  caused  by  a  splinter  of  wood  entering  his  head 
from  a  shot  on  board  a  boat.  Brousson  hopes  to  cure 
him.  They  say  the  English  have  discovered  a  mode 
of  treating  the  disease  with  prussic  acid  —  ' 

At  that  instant  a  still  more  piercing  cry  echoed 
through  the  house,  and  froze  us  with  horror. 

"  There !  that  is  what  I  listened  to  all  day  long  last 
year,"  said  the  banker's  wife.  "  It  made  me  jump  in 
my  chair  and  rasped  my  nerves  dreadfully.  But, 
strange  to  say,  poor  Taillefer,  though  he  suffers  un- 
told agony,  is  in  no  danger  of  dying.  He  eats  and 
drinks  as  well  as  ever  during  even  short  cessations 
of  the  pain  —  nature  is  so  queer  !  A  German  doctor 
told  him  it  was  a  form  of  gout  in  the  head,  and  that 
agrees  with  Brousson's  opinion. 

I  left  the  group  around  the  mistress  of  the  house  and 
went  away.  On  the  staircase  I  met  Mademoiselle 
Taillefer,  whom  a  footman  had  come  to  fetch. 

"Oh!"  she  said  to  me,  weeping,  "what  has  my 
poor  father  ever  done  to  deserve  such  suffering  ?  —  so 
kind  as  he  is  !  " 

I  accompanied  her  downstairs  and  assisted  her  in 
getting  into  the  carriage,  and  there  I  saw  her  father 
bent  almost  double. 

Mademoiselle  Taillefer  tried  to  stifle  his  moans  by 
putting  her  handkerchief  to  his  mouth ;  unhappily  he 
saw  me ;  his  face  became  even  more  distorted,  a  con- 
vulsive cry  rent  the  air,  and  he  gave  me  a  dreadful  look 
as  the  carriage  rolled  away. 

That  dinner,  that  evening  exercised  a  cruel  influence 
on  my  life  and  on  my  feelings.     I  loved  Mademoiselle 


216  The  Red  Inn. 

Taillefer,  precisely,  perhaps,  because  honor  and  decency 
forbade  me  to  marry  the  daughter  of  a  murderer,  how- 
ever good  a  husband  and  father  he  might  be.  A  cu- 
rious fatality  impelled  me  to  visit  those  houses  where 
I  knew  I  could  meet  Victorine ;  often,  after  giving 
myself  my  word  of  honor  to  renounce  the  happiness 
of  seeing  her,  I  found  myself  that  same  evening  beside 
her.  My  struggles  were  great.  Legitimate  love,  full 
of  chimerical  remorse,  assumed  the  color  of  a  criminal 
passion.  I  despised  myself  for  bowing  to  Taillefer 
when,  by  chance,  he  accompanied  his  daughter,  but  I 
bowed  to  him  all  the  same. 

Alas !  for  my  misfortune  Victorine  is  not  only  a 
pretty  girl,  she  is  also  educated,  intelligent,  full  of 
talent  and  of  charm,  without  the  slightest  pedantry 
or  the  faintest  tinge  of  assumption.  She  converses 
with  reserve,  and  her  nature  has  a  melancholy  grace 
which  no  one  can  resist.  She  loves  me,  or  at  least 
she  lets  me  think  so ;  she  has  a  certain  smile  which 
she  keeps  for  me  alone ;  for  me,  her  voice  grows  softer 
still.  Oh,  yes  !  she  loves  me  !  But  she  adores  her 
father ;  she  tells  me  of  his  kindness,  his  gentleness, 
his  excellent  qualities.  Those  praises  are  so  many 
dasher-thrusts  witli  which  she  stabs  me  to  the  heart. 

One  day  I  came  near  making  myself  the  accomplice, 
as  it  were,  of  the  crime  which  led  to  the  opulence  of 
the  Taillefer  family.  I  was  on  the  point  of  asking  the 
father  for  Victorine's  hand.  But  I  fled  ;  I  travelled  ;  I 
went  to  Germany,  to  Andernach ;  and  then  —  I  re- 
turned !  I  found  Victorine  pale,  and  thinner ;  if  I 
had  seen  her  well  in  health  and  gay,  I  should  certainly 
have  been  saved.     Instead  of  which  my  love  burst  out 


The  Red  Inn.  217  J 

again  with  untold  violence.  Fearing  that  my  scruples 
might  degenerate  into  monomania,  I  resolved  to  con- 
voke a  sanhedrim  of  sound  consciences,  and  obtain 
from  them  some  light  on  this  problem  of  high  morality 
and  philosophy, — a  problem  which  had  been,  as  we 
shall  see,  still  further  complicated  since  my  return. 

Two  days  ago,  therefore,  I  collected  those  of  my 
friends  to  whom  I  attribute  most  delicacy,  probity,' 
and  honor.  I  invited  two  Englishmen,  the  secretary 
of  an  embassy,  and  a  puritan ;  a  former  minister,  now 
a  mature  statesman ;  a  priest,  an  old  man ;  also  my 
former  guardian,  a  simple-hearted  being  who  rendered 
so  loyal  a  guardianship  account  that  the  memory  of  it 
is  still  green  at  the  Palais ;  besides  these,  there  were 
present  a  judge,  a  lawyer,  and  a  notary,  —  in  short,  all 
social  opinions,  and  all  practical  virtues. 

We  began  by  dining  well,  talking  well,  and  making 
some  noise ;  then,  at  dessert,  I  related  my  history 
candidly,  and  asked  for  advice,  concealing,  of  course, 
the  Taillefer  name. 

A  profound  silence  suddenly  fell  upon  the  company. 
Then  the  notary  took  leave.  He  had,  he  said,  a  deed 
to  draw. 

The  wine  and  the  good  dinner  had  reduced  my  for- 
mer guardian  to  silence ;  in  fact  I  was  obliged  later  in 
the  evening  to  put  him  under  guardianship,  to  make 
sure  of  no  mishap  to  him  on  his  way  home. 

"I  understand!"  I  cried.  "By  not  giving  an 
opinion  you  tell  me  energetically  enough  what  I  ought 
to  do." 

On  this  there  came  a  stir  throughout  the  assembly. 

A  capitalist  who  had  subscribed  for  the  children  and 
tomb  of  General  Foy  exclaimed  :  — 


218  The  Red  Inn. 


» 


"  Like  Virtue's  self,  a  crime  has  its  degrees. 

"  Rash  tongue  !  "  said  the  former  minister,  in  a  low 
voice,  nudging  me  with  his  elbow. 

"Where's  your  difficulty?"  asked  a  duke  whose 
fortune  is  derived  from  the  estates  of  stubborn  Prot- 
estants, confiscated  on  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of 
Nantes. 

The  lawyer  rose,  and  said  :  — 

"  In  law,  the  case  submitted  to  us  presents  no  diffi- 
culty. Monsieur  le  due  is  right !  "  cried  the  legal 
orojan.  "  There  are  time  limitations.  Where  should 
we  all  be  if  we  had  to  search  into  the  origin  of  for- 
tunes? This  is  simply  an  affair  of  conscience.  If 
you  must  absolutely  carry  the  case  before  some  tri- 
bunal, go  to  that  of  the  confessional." 

The  Code  incarnate  ceased  speaking,  sat  down,  and 
drank  a  glass  of  champagne.  The  man  charged  with 
the  duty  of  explaining  the  gospel,  the  good  priest, 
rose. 

14  God  has  made  us  all  frail  beings,"  he  said  firmly. 
44 If  you  love  the  heiress  of  that  crime,  marry  her  ;  but 
content  yourself  with  the  property  she  derives  from  her 
mother ;  give  that  of  the  father  to  the  poor." 

44  But,"  cried  one  of  those  pitiless  hair-splitters  who 
are  often  to  be  met  with  in  the  world,  4'  perhaps  the 
father  could  make  a  rich  marriage  only  because  he  was 
rich  himself ;  consequently,  the  marriage  was  the  fruit 
of  the  crime." 

44  This  discussion  is,  in  itself,  a  verdict.  There  are 
some  things  on  which  a  man  does  not  deliberate,"  said 
my  former  guardian,  who  thought  to  enlighten  the 
assembly  with  a  flash  of  inebriety. 


The  Red  Inn.  219 

"  Yes !  "  said  the  secretary  of  an  embassy. 

"  Yes  !  "  said  the  priest. 

But  the  two  men  did  not  mean  the  same  thing. 

A  doctrinaire,  who  had  missed  his  election  to  the 
Chamber  by  one  hundred  and  fifty  votes  out  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty-five,  here  rose. 

"  Messieurs,"  he  said,  "  this  phenomenal  incident  of 
intellectual  nature  is  one  of  those  which  stand  out 
vividly  from  the  normal  condition  to  which  society  is 
subjected.  Consequently  the  decision  to  be  matle 
ought  to  be  the  spontaneous  act  of  our  consciences,  a 
sudden  conception,  a  prompt  inward  verdict,  a  fugitive 
shadow  of  our  mental  apprehension,  much  like  the 
flashes  of  sentiment  w7hich  constitute  taste.  Let  us 
vote." 

"  Let  us  vote !  "  cried  all  my  guests. 

I  gave  each  two  balls,  one  white,  one  red.  The 
white,  symbol  of  virginity,  was  to  forbid  the  marriage  ; 
the  red  ball  sanctioned  it.  I  myself  abstained  from 
voting,  out  of  delicacy. 

My  friends  were  seventeen  in  number ;  nine  was 
therefore  the  majority.  Each  man  put  his  ball  into 
the  wicker  basket  with  a  narrow  throat,  used  to  hold 
the  numbered  balls  when  card-players  draw  for  their 
places  at  pool.  We  were  all  roused  to  a  more  or  less 
keen  curiosity ;  for  this  balloting  to  clarify  morality 
was  certainly  original.  Inspection  of  the  ballot-box 
showed  the  presence  of  nine  white  balls !  The  result 
did  not  surprise  me  ;  but  it  came  into  my  head  to  count 
the  young  men  of  my  own  age  whom  I  had  brought  to 
sit  in  judgment.  These  casuists  were  precisely  nine 
in  number ;  they  all  had  the  same  thought. 


220  The  Red  Inn. 

44  Oh,  oh !  "  I  said  to  myself,  44  here  is  secret  una- 
nimity to  forbid  the  marriage,  and  secret  unanimity  to 
sanction  it !     How  shall  I  solve  that  problem  ?  " 

44  Where  does  the  father-in-law  live?"  asked  one  of 
my  school-friends,  heedlessly,  being  less  sophisticated 
than  the  others. 

4' There's  no  longer  a  father-in-law,"  I  replied. 
44  Hitherto,  my  conscience  has  spoken  plainly  enough 
to  make  your  verdict  superfluous.  If  to-day  its  voice 
is  weakened,  here  is  the  cause  of  my  cowardice.  I 
received,  about  two  months  ago,  this  all-seducing 
letter." 

And  I  showed  them  the  following  invitation,  which 
I  took  from  my  pocket-book  :  — 

"  You  are  invited  to  be  present  at  the  funeral  procession, 
burial  services,  and  interment  of  Monsieur  Jean-Frederic 
Taillefer,  of  the  house  of  Taillefer  and  Company,  formerly 
Purveyor  of  Commissary-meats,  in  his  lifetime  chevalier  of 
the  Legion  of  honor,  and  of  the  Golden  Spur,  captain  of  the 
first  company  of  the  Grenadiers  of  the  National  Guard  of 
Paris,  deceased,  May  1st,  at  his  residence,  rue  Joubert ; 
which  will  take  place  at,  etc.,  etc. 
On  the  part  of,  etc." 


a 


"  Now,  what  am  I  to  do?  '  I  continued  ;  44 1  will  put 
the  question  before  you  in  a  broad  way.  There  is  un- 
doubtedly a  sea  of  blood  in  Mademoiselle  Taillefer's 
estates ;  her  inheritance  from  her  father  is  a  vast  Acel- 
dama. I  know  that.  But  Prosper  Magnan  left  no 
heirs ;  but,  again,  I  have  been  unable  to  discover  the 
family  of  the  merchant  who  was  murdered  at  Ander- 
nach.     To  whom  therefore  can  I  restore  that  fortune  ? 


The  Red  Inn.  221 

"And  ought  it  to  be  wholly  restored?  Have  I  the 
right  to  betray  a  secret  surprised  by  me,  —  to  add  a 
murdered  head  to  the  dowry  of  an  innoceut  girl,  to  give 
her  for  the  rest  of  her  life  bad  dreams,  to  deprive  her 
of  all  her  illusions,  and  say,  '  Your  gold  is  stained 
with  blood'?  I  have  borrowed  the  'Dictionary  of 
Cases  of  Conscience  '  from  an  old  ecclesiastic,  but  I 
can  find  nothing  there  to  solve  my  doubts.  Shall  I 
found  pious  masses  for  the  repose  of  the  souls  of  Pros- 
per Magnan,  Wahlenfer,  and  Taillefer?  Here  we  are 
in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century !  Shall  I  build 
a  hospital,  or  institute  a  prize  for  virtue?  A  prize  for 
virtue  would  be  given  to  scoundrels ;  and  as  for  hospi- 
tals, they  seem  to  me  to  have  become  in  these  days  the 
protectors  of  vice.  Besides,  such  charitable  actions, 
more  or  less  profitable  to  vanity,  do  they  constitute 
reparation? — and  to  whom  do  I  owe  reparation? 
But  I  love ;  I  love  passionately.  My  love  is  my 
life.  If  I,  without  apparent  motive,  suggest  to  a 
young  girl  accustomed  to  luxury,  to  elegance,  to  a  life 
fruitful  of  all  enjoyments  of  art,  a  young  girl  who 
loves  to  idly  listen  at  the  opera  to  Rossini's  music, —  if 
to  her  I  should  propose  that  she  deprive  herself  of 
fifteen  hundred  thousand  francs  in  favor  of  broken- 
down  old  men,  or  scrofulous  paupers,  she  would  turn 
her  back  on  me  and  laugh,  or  her  confidential  friend 
would  tell  her  that  I  'm  a  crazy  jester.  If  in  an  ecstasy 
of  love,  I  should  paint  to  her  the  charms  of  a  modest 
life,  and  a  little  home  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire ;  if  I 
were  to  ask  her  to  sacrifice  her  Parisian  life  on  the 
altar  of  our  love,  it  would  be,  in  the  first  place,  a  vir- 
tuous lie  ;  in  the  next,  I  might  only  be  opening  the 


222  The  Bed  Inn. 

way  to  some  painful  experience  ;  I  might  lose  the  heart 
of  a  girl  who  loves  society,  and  balls,  and  personal 
adornment,  and  me  for  the  time  being.  Some  slim  and 
jaunty  officer,  with  a  well-frizzed  moustache,  who  can 
play  the  piano,  quote  Lord  Byron,  and  ride  a  horse 
elegantly,  may  get  her  away  from  me.  What  shall  I 
do?     For  Heaven's  sake,  give  me  some  advice  !  " 

The  honest  man,  that  species  of  puritan  not  unlike 
the  father  of  Jeannie  Deans,  of  whom  I  have  already 
told  you,  and  who,  up  to  the  present  moment  had  n't 
uttered  a  word,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  he  looked  at 
me  and  said :  — 

"Idiot!  why  did  you  ask  him  if  he  came  from 
Beauvais?" 


THE    RECRUIT. 


THE     RECRUIT. 


to  my  dear 
Albert  Mabchand  de  la  Ribellerie. 


At  times  they  saw  him,  by  a  phenomenon  of  vision  or  locomo- 
tion, abolish  space  in  its  two  forms  of  Time  and  Distance ;  the  for- 
mer being  intellectual  space,  the  other  physical  space. 

Intellectual  History  of  Louis  Lambert. 

On  an  evening  in  the  month  of  November,  1793,  the 
principal  persons  of  Carentan  were  assembled  in  the 
salon  of  Madame  de  Dey,  where  they  met  daily.  Sev- 
eral circumstances  which  would  never  have  attracted 
attention  in  a  large  town,  though  they  greatly  preoccu- 
pied the  little  one,  gave  to  this  habitual  rendezvous  an 
unusual  interest.  For  the  two  preceding  evenings 
Madame  de  Dey  had  closed  her  doors  to  the  little  com- 
pany, on  the  ground  that  she  was  ill.  Such  an  event 
would,  in  ordinary  times,  have  produced  as  much  effect 
as  the  closing  of  the  theatres  in  Paris  ;  life  under  those 
circumstances  seems  merely  incomplete.  But  in  1793, 
Madame  de  Dey's    action  was  likely  to  have  fatal  re- 

15 


2£6  The  Recruit. 

suits.  The  slightest  departure  from  a  usual  custom 
became,  almost  invariably  for  the  nobles,  a  matter  of 
life  or  death.  To  fully  understand  the  eager  curiosity 
and  searching  inquiry  which  animated  on  this  occasion 
the  Norman  countenances  of  all  these  rejected  visitors, 
but  more  especially  to  enter  into  Madame  de  Dey's 
secret  anxieties,  it  is  necessary  to  explain  the  rdle  she 
played  at  Carentan.  The  critical  position  in  which 
she  stood  at  this  moment  being  that  of  many  others 
during  the  Revolution  the  sympathies  and  recollections 
of  more  than  one  reader  will  help  to  give  color  to  this 
narrative. 

Madame  de  Dey,  widow  of  a  lieutenant-general, 
chevalier  of  the  Orders,  had  left  the  court  at  the  time 
of  the  emigration.  Possessing  a  good  deal  of  property 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Carentan,  she  took  refuge  in 
that  town,  hoping  that  the  influence  of  the  Terror 
would  be  little  felt  there.  This  expectation,  based  on 
a  knowledge  of  the  region,  was  well-founded.  The 
Revolution  committed  but  few  ravages  in  Lower  Nor- 
mandy. Though  Madame  de  Dey  had  known  none 
but  the  nobles  of  her  own  caste  when  she  visited  her 
property  in  former  years,  she  now  felt  it  advisable  to 
open  her  house  to  the  principal  bourgeois  of  the  town, 
and  to  the  new  governmental  authorities ;  trying  to 
make  .them  pleased  at  obtaining  her  society,  without 
arousing  either  hatred  or  jealousy.  Gracious  and 
kind,  gifted  by  nature  with  that  inexpressible  charm 
which  can  please  without  having  recourse  to  subservi- 
ency or  to  making  overtures,  she  succeeded  in  win- 
ning general  esteem  by  an  exquisite  tact;  the  sensitive 
warnings  of  which  enabled  her  to  follow  the  delicate 


The  Recruit.  227 

line  along  which  she  might  satisfy  the  exactions  of  this 
mixed  society,  without  humiliating  the  touchy  pride  of 
the  parvenus,  or  shocking  that  of  her  own  friends. 

Then  about  thirty-eight  years  of  age,  she  still  pre- 
served, not  the  fresh  plump  beauty  which  distinguishes 
the  daughters  of  Lower  Normandy,  but  a  fragile  and, 
so  to  speak,  aristocratic  beauty.  Her  features  were 
delicate  and  refined,  her  figure  supple  and  easy.  When 
she  spoke,  her  pale  face  lighted  and  seemed  to  acquire 
fresh  life.  Her  large  dark  eyes  were  full  of  affability 
and  kindness,  and  yet  their  calm,  religious  expression 
seemed  to  say  that  the  springs  of  her  existence  were 
no  longer  in  her. 

Married  in  the  flower  of  her  age  to  au  old  and  jeal- 
ous soldier,  the  falseness  of  her  position  in  the  midst 
of  a  court  noted  for  its  gallantry  contributed  much, 
no  doubt,  to  draw  a  veil  of  melancholy  over  a  face 
where  the  charms  and  the  vivacity  of  love  must  have 
shone  in  earlier  days.  Obliged  to  repress  the  naive 
impulses  and  emotions  of  a  woman  at  the  period  when 
she  simply  feels  them  instead  of  reflecting  about  them, 
passion  was  still  virgin  in  the  depths  of  her  heart. 
Her  principal  attraction  came,  in  fact,  from  this  innate 
youth,  which  sometimes,  however,  played  her  false,  and 
gave  to  her  ideas  an  innocent  expression  of  desire.  Her 
manner  and  appearance  commanded  respect,  but  there 
was  always  in  her  bearing,  in  her  voice,  a  sort  of  looking 
forward  to  some  unknown  future,  as  in  girlhood.  The 
most  insensible  man  would  find  himself  in  love  with 
her,  and  yet  be  restrained  by  a  sort  of  respectful  fear, 
inspired  by  her  courtly  and  polished  manners.  Her 
soul,  naturally  noble,  but  strengthened  by  cruel  trials, 


228  The  Recruit. 

was  far  indeed  from  the  common  run,  and  men  did 
justice  to  it.  Such  a  soul  necessarily  required  a  lofty 
passion ;  and  the  affections  of  Madame  de  Dey  were 
concentrated  in  a  single  sentiment,  —  that  of  mother- 
hood. The  happiness  and  pleasure  of  which  her  mar- 
ried life  was  deprived,  she  found  in  the  passionate  love 
she  bore  her  son.  She  loved  him  not  only  with  the 
pure  and  deep  devotion  of  a  mother,  but  with  the 
coquetry  of  a  mistress,  and  the  jealousy  of  a  wife. 
She  was  miserable  away  from  him,  uneasy  at  his  ab- 
sence, could  never  see  him  enough,  and  lived  only 
through  him  and  for  him.  To  make  men  understand 
the  strength  of  this  feeling,  it  suffices  to  add  that  the 
son  was  not  only  the  sole  child  of  Madame  de  Dey, 
but  also  her  last  relation,  the  only  being  in  the  world 
to  whom  the  fears  and  hopes  and  joys  of  her  life  could 
be  naturally  attached. 

The  late  Comte  de  Dey  was  the  last  surviving  scion 
of  his  family,  and  she  herself  was  the  sole  heiress  of 
her  own.  Human  interests  and  projects  combined, 
therefore,  with  the  noblest  needs  of  the  soul  to  exalt 
in  this  mother's  heart  a  sentiment  that  is  always  so 
strong  in  the  hearts  of  women.  She  had  brought  up 
this  son  with  the  utmost  difficulty,  and  with  infinite 
pains,  which  rendered  the  youth  still  dearer  to  her ; 
a  score  of  times  the  doctors  had  predicted  his  death, 
but,  confident  in  her  own  presentiments,  her  own  un- 
failing hope,  she  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  him  come 
safely  through  the  perils  of  childhood,  with  a  constitu- 
tion that  was  ever  improving,  in  spite  of  the  warnings 
of  the  Faculty. 

Thanks  to  her  constant  care,  this  son  had  grown 


The  Recruit,  229 

and  developed  so  much,  and  so  gracefully,  that  at 
twenty  years  of  age,  he  was  thought  a  most  elegant 
cavalier  at  Versailles.  Madame  de  Dey  possessed  a 
happiness  which  does  not  always  crown  the  efforts  and 
struggles  of  a  mother.  Her  son  adored  her ;  their 
souls  understood  each  other  with  fraternal  sympathy. 
If  they  had  not  been  bound  by  nature's  ties,  they 
would  instinctively  have  felt  for  each  other  that  friend- 
ship of  man  to  man,  which  is  so  rarely  to  be  met  in 
this  life.  Appointed  sub-lieutenant  of  dragoons,  at 
the  age  of  eighteen,  the  young  Comte  de  Dey  had 
obeyed  the  point  of  honor  of  the  period  by  following 
the  princes  of  the  blood  in  their  emigration. 

Thus  Madame  de  Dey,  noble,  rich,  and  the  mother 
of  an  emigre,  could  not  be  unaware  of  the  dangers  of 
her  cruel  situation.  Having  no  other  desire  than  to 
preserve  a  fortune  for  her  son,  she  renounced  the  hap- 
piness of  emigrating  with  him  ;  and  when  she  read  the 
vigorous  laws  by  virtue  of  which  the  Republic  daily 
confiscated  the  property  of  emigres,  she  congratulated 
herself  on  that  act  of  courage  ;  was  she  not  guarding 
the  property  of  her  son  at  the  peril  of  her  life?  And 
when  she  heard  of  the  terrible  executions  ordered  by 
the  Convention,  she  slept  in  peace,  knowing  that  her 
sole  treasure  was  in  safety,  far  from  danger,  far  from 
scaffolds.  She  took  pleasure  in  believing  that  they  had 
each  chosen  the  wiser  course,  a  course  which  would 
save  to  him  both  life  and  fortune. 

With  this  secret  comfort  in  her  mind,  she  was  ready 
to  make  all  the  concessions  required  by  those  evil  days, 
and  without  sacrificing  either  her  dignity  as  a  woman, 
or  her  aristocratic  beliefs,  she  conciliated  the  good-will 


230  The  Recruit. 

of  those  about  her.  Madame  de  Dey  had  fully  under- 
stood the  difficulties  that  awaited  her  on  coming  to 
Carentan.  To  seek  to  occupy  a  leading  position  would 
be  daily  defiance  to  the  scaffold  ;  yet  she  pursued  her 
even  way.  Sustained  by  her  motherly  courage,  she 
won  the  affections  of  the  poor  by  comforting  indis- 
criminately all  miseries,  and  she  made  herself  neces- 
sary to  the  rich  by  assisting  their  pleasures.  She  re- 
ceived the  procureur  of  the  commune,  the  mayor,  the 
judge  of  the  district  court,  the  public  prosecutor,  and 
even  the  judges  of  the  revolutionary  tribunal. 

The  first  four  of  these  personages,  being  bachelors, 
courted  her  with  the  hope  of  marriage,  furthering  their 
cause  by  either  letting  her  see  the  evils  they  could  do 
her,  or  those  from  which  they  could  protect  her.  The 
public  prosecutor,  previously  an  attorney  at  Caen,  and 
the  manager  of  the  countess's  affairs,  tried  to  inspire 
her  with  love  by  an  appearance  of  generosity  and  de- 
votion ;  a  dangerous  attempt  for  her.  He  was  the 
most  to  be  feared  among  her  suitors.  He  alone  knew 
the  exact  condition  of  the  property  of  his  former  client. 
His  passion  was  increased  by  cupidity,  and  his  cause 
was  backed  by  enormous  power,  the  power  of  life  and 
death  throughout  the  district.  This  man,  still  young, 
showed  so  much  apparent  nobleness  and  generosity  in 
his  proceedings  that  Madame  de  Dey  had  not  yet  been 
able  to  judge  him.  But,  disregarding  the  danger  that 
attends  all  attempts  at  subtilty  with  Normans,  she  em- 
ployed the  inventive  wit  and  slyness  which  Nature 
grants  to  women  in  opposing  the  four  rivals  one  against 
the  other.  By  thus  gaining  time,  she  hoped  to  come 
safe  and   sound  to  the  end  of  the  national  troubles. 


The  Recruit.  231 

At  this  period,  the  royalists  in  the  interior  of  France 
expected  day  by  day  that  the  Revolution  would  be 
ended  on  the  morrow.  This  conviction  was  the  ruin 
of  very  many  of  them. 

In  spite  of  these  difficulties,  the  countess  had  main- 
tained her  independence  very  cleverly  until  the  day 
when,  by  an  inexplicable  imprudence,  she  closed  her 
doors  to  her  usual  evening  visitors.  Madame  de  Dey 
inspired  so  genuine  and  deep  an  interest,  that  the  per- 
sons who  called  upon  her  that  evening  expressed  ex- 
treme anxiety  on  being  told  that  she  was  unable  to 
receive  them.  Then,  with  that  frank  curiosity  which 
appears  in  provincial  manners,  they  inquired  what  mis- 
fortune, grief,  or  illness  afflicted  her.  In  reply  to  these 
questions,  an  old  housekeeper  named  Brigitte  informed 
them  that  her  mistress  had  shut  herself  up  in  her  room 
and  would  see  no  one,  not  even  the  servants  of  the 
house.  The  semi-cloistral  existence  of  the  inhabitants 
of  a  little  town  creates  so  invincible  a  habit  of  ana- 
lyzing and  explaining  the  actions  of  their  neighbors, 
that  after  compassionating  Madame  de  Dey  (without 
knowing  whether  she  were  happy  or  unhappy),  they 
proceeded  to  search  for  the  reasons  of  this  sudden 
retreat. 

"If  she  were  ill,"  said  the  first  Inquisitive,  "she 
would  have  sent  for  the  doctor ;  but  the  doctor  has 
been  all  day  long  playing  chess  with  me.  He  told  me, 
laughing,  that  in  these  days  there  was  but  one  malady, 
and  that  was  incurable." 

This  joke  was  cautiously  uttered.  Men,  women,  old 
men,  and  young  girls,  all  set  to  work  to  explore  the 
vast  field  of  conjecture.     The   next  day,  conjectures 


232  The  Recruit. 

became  suspicions.  As  life  is  all  aboveboard  in  a 
little  town,  the  women  were  the  first  to  learn  that 
Brigitte  had  made  larger  purchases  than  usual  in  the 
market.  This  fact  could  not  be  disputed  :  Brigitte  had 
been  seen  there,  very  early  in  the  morning ;  and,  ex- 
traordinary event !  she  had  bought  the  only  hare  the 
market  afforded.  Now  all  the  town  knew  that  Madame 
de  Dey  did  not  like  game.  The  hare  became,  there- 
fore, the  point  of  departure  for  a  vast  array  of  suspi- 
cions. The  old  men  who  were  taking  their  walks 
abroad,  remarked  a  sort  of  concentrated  activity  about 
Madame  de  Dey's  premises,  shown  by  th>e  very  precau- 
tions which  the  servants  took  to  conceal  it.  The  foot- 
man was  beating  a  carpet  in  the  garden.  The  day 
before,  no  one  would  have  noticed  that  fact ;  but  the 
carpet  now  became  a  corner-stone  on  which  the  whole 
town  built  up  its  theories.  Each  individual  had  his  or 
her  surmise. 

The  second  day,  on  learning  that  Madame  de  Dey 
declared  herself  ill,  the  principal  personages  of  Caren- 
tan,  assembled  in  the  evening  at  the  house  of  the 
mayor's  brother,  an  old  married  merchant,  a  man  of 
strict  integrity,  greatly  respected,  and  for  whom 
Madame  de  Dey  had  shown  much  esteem.  There  all 
the  aspirants  for  the  hand  of  the  rich  widow  had  a  tale 
to  tell  that  was  more  or  less  probable ;  and  each  ex- 
pected to  turn  to  his  own  profit  the  secret  event  which 
he  thus  recounted.  The  public  prosecutor  imagined  a 
whole  drama  to  result  in  the  return  by  night  of 
Madame  de  Dey's  son,  the  emigre.  The  mayor  was 
convinced  that  a  priest  who  refused  the  oath  had  ar- 
rived from  La  Vendee  and  asked  for  asylum ;  but  the 


The  Recruit.  233 

day  being  Friday,  the  purchase  of  a  hare  embarrassed 
the  good  mayor  not  a  little.  The  judge  of  the  district 
court  held  firmly  to  the  theory  of  a  Chouan  leader  or 
a  body  of  Vendeans  hotly  pursued.  Others  were  con- 
vinced that  the  person  harbored  was  a  noble  escaped 
from  the  Paris  prisons.  In  short,  they  all  suspected 
the  countess  of  being  guilty  of  one  of  those  generosi- 
ties, which  the  laws  of  the  day  called  crimes,  and  pun- 
ished on  the  scaffold.  The  public  prosecutor  remarked 
in  a  low  voice  that  it  would  be  best  to  say  no  more, 
but  to  do  their  best  to  save  the  poor  woman  from  the 
abyss  toward  which  she  was  hurrying. 

"  If  you  talk  about  this  affair,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  take  notice  of  it,  and  search  her  house,  and 
then  —  " 

He  said  no  more,  but  all  present  understood  what  he 
meant. 

The  sincere  frieuds  of  Madame  de  Dey  were  so 
alarmed  about  her,  that  on  the  morning  of  the  third 
day,  the  procureur-syndic  of  the  commune  made  his 
wife  write  her  a  letter,  urging  her  to  receive  her  visi- 
tors as  usual  that  evening.  Bolder  still,  the  old  mer- 
chant went  himself  in  the  morning  to  Madame  de 
Dey's  house,  and,  strong  in  the  service  he  wanted  to 
render  her,  he  insisted  on  seeing  her,  and  was  amazed 
to  find  her  in  the  garden  gathering  flowers  for  her 
vases. 

"  She  must  be  protecting  a  lover,"  thought  the  old 
man,  filled  with  sudden  pity  for  the  charming  woman. 

The  singular  expression  on  the  countess's  face 
strengthened  this  conjecture.  Much  moved  at  the 
thought  of  such  devotion,  for  all  men  are  flattered  by 


234  The  Recruit. 

the  sacrifices  a  woman  makes  for  one  of  them,  the  old 
man  told  the  countess  of  the  rumors  that  were  floating 
about  the  town,  and  the  dangers  to  which  she  was  ex- 
posing herself. 

"  For,"  he  said  in  conclusion,  "  though  some  of  the 
authorities  will  readily  pardon  a  heroism  which  pro- 
tects a  priest,  none  of  them  will  spare  you  if  they  dis- 
cover that  you  are  sacrificing  yourself  to  the  interests 
of  your  heart." 

At  these  words  Madame  de  Dey  looked  at  the  old 
man  with  a  wild  and  bewildered  air,  that  made  him 
shudder. 

u  Come,"  she  said,  taking  him  by  the  hand  and  lead- 
ing him  into  her  bedroom.  After  assuring  herself  that 
they  were  quite  alone,  she  drew  from  her  bosom  a 
soiled  and  crumpled  letter. 

"  Read  that,"  she  said,  making  a  violent  effort  to 
say  the  words. 

She  fell  into  a  chair,  seemingly  exhausted.  While 
the  old  man  searched  for  his  spectacles  and  rubbed 
their  glasses,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  him,  and  seemed 
to  study  him  with  curiosity  ;  then  she  said  in  an  altered 
voice,  and  very  softly,  — 

"  I  trust  you." 

"  I  am  here  to  share  your  crime,"  replied  the  good 
man,  simply. 

She  quivered.  For  the  first  time  in  that  little  town, 
her  soul  sympathized  with  that  of  another.  The  old 
man  now  understood  both  the  hopes  and  the  fears  of 
the  poor  woman.  The  letter  was  from  her  son.  He 
had  returned  to  France  to  share  in  Granville's  expedi- 
tion, and  was  taken  prisoner.     The  letter  was  written 


The  Recruit.  235 

from  his  cell,  but  it  told  her  to  hope.  He  did  not 
doubt  his  means  of  escape,  and  he  named  to  her  three 
days,  on  one  of  which  he  expected  to  be  with  her  in 
disguise.  But  in  case  he  did  not  reach  Carentan  by 
the  evening  of  the  third  day,  she  might  know  some 
fatal  difficulty  had  occurred,  and  the  letter  contained 
his  last  wishes  and  a  sad  farewell.  The  paper  trem- 
bled in  the  old  man's  hand. 

"  This  is  the  third  day,"  cried  the  countess,  rising 
and  walking  hurriedly  up  and  down. 

"  You  have  been  very  imprudent,"  said  the  mer- 
chant.    "  Why  send  Brigitte  to  buy  those  provisions  ?  " 

"  But  he  may  arrive  half-dead  with  hunger,  ex- 
hausted, and —  " 

She  could  say  no  more. 

"  I  am  sure  of  my  brother  the  mayor,"  said  the  old 
man.  "  I  will  see  him  at  once,  and  put  him  in  your 
interests." 

After  talking  with  the  mayor,  the  shrewd  old  man 
made  visits  on  various  pretexts  to  the  principal  fami- 
lies of  Carentan,  to  all  of  whom  he  mentioned  that 
Madame  de  Dey,  in  spite  of  her  illness,  would  receive 
her  friends  that  evening.  Matching  his  own  craft 
against  those  wily  Norman  minds,  he  replied  to 
the  questions  put  to  him  on  the  nature  of  Madame 
de  Dey's  illness  in  a  manner  that  hoodwinked  the  com- 
munity. He  related  to  a  gouty  old  dame,  that  Madame 
de  Dey  had  almost  died  of  a  sudden  attack  of  gout  in 
the  stomach,  but  had  been  relieved  by  a  remedy  which 
the  famous  doctor,  Tronchin,  had  once  recommended 
to  her,  —  namely,  to  apply  the  skin  of  a  freshly-flayed 
hare  on  the  pit  of  the  stomach,  and  to  remain  in  bed 


236  The  Recruit. 

without  making  the  slightest  movement  for  two  days. 
This  tale  had  prodigious  success,  and  the  doctor  of 
Carentan,  a  royalist  in  jielto,  increased  its  effect  by  the 
manner  in  which  he  discussed  the  remedy. 

Nevertheless,  suspicions  had  taken  too  strong  a  root 
in  the  minds  of  some  obstinate  persons,  and  a  few 
philosophers,  to  be  thus  dispelled  ;  so  that  all  Madame 
de  Dey's  usual  visitors  came  eagerly  and  early  that 
evening  to  watch  her  countenance :  some  out  of  true 
friendship,  but  most  of  them  to  detect  the  secret  of 
her  seclusion. 

They  found  the  countess  seated  as  usual,  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  great  fireplace  in  her  salon,  a  room  almost 
as  unpretentious  as  the  other  salons  in  Carentan ;  for, 
in  order  not  to  wound  the  narrow  views  of  her  guests, 
she  denied  herself  the  luxuries  to  which  she  was  accus- 
tomed. The  floor  of  her  reception  room  was  not  even 
waxed,  the  walls  were  still  hung  with  dingy  tapestries ; 
she  used  the  country  furniture,  burned  tallow  candles, 
and  followed  the  customs  of  the  town,  —  adopting  pro- 
vincial life,  and  not  shrinking  from  its  pettiness  or  its 
many  disagreeable  privations.  Knowing,  however,  that 
her  guests  would  pardon  luxuries  if  provided  for  their 
own  comfort,  she  neglected  nothing  which  conduced  to 
their  personal  enjoyment,  and  gave  them,  more  espe- 
cially, excellent  dinners. 

Toward  seven  o'clock  on  this  memorable  evening, 
her  guests  were  all  assembled  in  a  wide  circle  around 
the  fireplace.  The  mistress  of  the  house,  sustained 
in  her  part  by  the  sympathizing  glances  of  the  old 
merchant,  submitted  with  wonderful  courage  to  the 
minute  questioning  and  stupid,  or  frivolous,  comments 


The  Recruit.  237 

of  her  visitors.  At  every  rap  upon  her  door,  every 
footfall  echoing  in  the  street,  she  hid  her  emotions  by 
starting  topics  relating  to  the  interests  of  the  town, 
and  she  raised  such  a  lively  discussion  on  the  quality 
of  ciders,  which  was  ably  seconded  by  the  old  mer- 
chant, that  the  company  almost  forgot  to  watch  her, 
finding  her  countenance  quite  natural,  and  her  compo- 
sure imperturbable.  The  public  prosecutor  and  one  of 
the  judges  of  the  revolutionary  tribunal  was  taciturn,  ob- 
serving attentively  every  change  in  her  face  ;  every  now 
and  then  they  addressed  her  some  embarrassing  question, 
to  which,  however,  the  countess  answered  with  admir- 
able presence  of  mind.     Mothers  have  such  courage  ! 

After  Madame  de  Dey  had  arranged  the  card  par- 
ties, placing  some  guests  at  the  boston,  and  some 
at  the  whist  tables,  she  stood  talking  to  a  number 
of  young  people  with  extreme  ease  and  liveliness  of 
manner,  playing  her  part  like  a  consummate  actress. 
Presently  she  suggested  a  game  of  loto.  and  offered  to 
find  the  box,  on  the  ground  that  she  alone  knew  where 
it  was,  and  then  she  disappeared. 

"lam  suffocating,  my  poor  Brigitte,"  she  cried, 
wiping  the  tears  that  gushed  from  her  eyes,  now  bril- 
liant with  fever,  anxiety,  and  impatience.  4t  He  does 
not  come,"  she  moaned,  looking  round  the  room  pre- 
pared for  her  son.  "  Here  alone  I  can  breathe,  I  can 
live  !  A  few  minutes  more  and  he  must  be  here  ;  for 
I  know  he  is  living.  I  am  certain  of  it,  my  heart  says 
so.  Don't  you  hear  something,  Brigitte?  I  would 
give  the  rest  of  my  life  to  know  at  this  moment 
whether  he  were  still  in  prison,  or  out  in  the  free 
country.     Oh!    I  wish  I  could  stop  thinking  — " 


238  The  Recruit. 

She  again  examined  the  room  to  see  if  all  were  in 
order.  A  good  fire  burned  on  the  hearth,  the  shutters 
were  carefully  closed,  the  furniture  shone  with  rub- 
bing ;  even  the  manner  in  which  the  bed  was  made 
showed  that  the  countess  had  assisted  Brigitte  in  every 
detail ;  her  hopes  were  uttered  in  the  delicate  care 
given  to  that  room  where  she.  expected  to  fold  her  son 
in  her  arms.  A  mother  alone  could  have  thought  of 
all  his  wants ;  a  choice  repast,  rare  wine,  fresh  linen, 
slippers,  in  short,  everything  the  tired  man  would  need, 
—  all  were  there  that  nothing  might  be  lacking ;  the 
comforts  of  his  home  should  reveal  to  him  without 
words  the  tenderness  of  his  mother ! 

"Brigitte!"  said  the  countess,  in  a  heart-rending 
tone,  placing  a  chair  before  the  table,  as  if  to  give  a 
semblance  of  reality  to  her  hopes,  and  so  increase  the 
strength  of  her  illusions. 

"  Ah  !  madame,  he  will  come.  He  is  not  far  off.  I 
have  n't  a  doubt  he  is  living,  and  on  his  way,"  replied 
Brigitte.  "  I  put  a  key  in  the  Bible,  and  I  held  it  on  my 
fingers  while  Cottin  read  a  chapter  in  the  gospel  of 
Saint  John  ;  and,  madame,  the  key  never  turned  at  all !  " 

"  Is  that  a  good  sign?  "  asked  the  countess. 

"  Oh!  madame,  that's  a  well-known  sign.  I  would 
wager  my  salvation,  he  still  lives.  God  would  not  so 
deceive  us." 

"Ah!  if  he  would  only  come  —  no  matter  for  his 
danger  here." 

"Poor  Monsieur  Auguste!"  cried  Brigitte,  "he 
must  be  toiling  along  the  roads  on  foot." 

"There's  eight  o'clock  striking  now,"  cried  the 
countess,  in  terror. 


The  Recruit.  239 

She  dared  not  stay  away  any  longer  from  her  guests ; 
but  before  re-entering  the  salon,  she  paused  a  moment 
under  the  peristyle  of  the  staircase,  listening  if  any 
sound  were  breaking  the  silence  of  the  street.  She 
smiled  at  Brigitte's  husband,  who  was  standing  senti- 
nel at  the  door,  and  whose  eyes  seemed  stupefied  by 
the  intensity  of  his  attention  to  the  murmurs  of  the 
street  and  night. 

Madame  de  Dey  re-entered  her  salon,  affecting  gay- 
ety,  and  began  to  play  loto  wTith  the  young  people; 
but  after  a  while  she  complained  of  feeling  ill,  and 
returned  to  her  chimney-corner. 

Such  was  the  situation  of  affairs,  and  of  people's 
minds  in  the  house  of  Madame  de  Dey,  while  along 
the  road,  between  Paris  and  Cherbourg,  a  young  man 
in  a  brown  jacket,  called  a  carmagnole,  worn  de  ri- 
gueur  at  that  period,  was  making  his  way  to  Carentan. 
When  drafts  for  the  army  were  first  instituted,  there 
was  little  or  no  discipline.  The  requirements  of  the 
moment  did  not  allow  the  Republic  to  equip  its  sol- 
diers immediately,  and  it  was  not  an  unusual  thing  to 
see  the  roads  covered  with  recruits,  who  were  still 
wearing  citizen's  dress.  These  young  men  either  pre- 
ceded or  lagged  behind  their  respective  battalions, 
according  to  their  power  of  enduring  the  fatigues  of  a 
long  march. 

The  young  man  of  whom  we  are  now  speaking,  was 
much  in  advance  of  a  column  of  recruits,  known  to  be 
on  its  way  from  Cherbourg,  which  the  mayor  of  Car- 
entan was  awaiting  hourly,  in  order  to  give  them  their 
billets  for  the  night.  The  young  man  walked  with  a 
jaded  step,   but  firmly,  and  his  gait  seemed  to  show 


240  The  Recruit. 

that  he  had  long  been  familiar  with  military  hardships. 
Though  the  moon  was  shining  on  the  meadows  about 
Carentan,  he  had  noticed  heavy  clouds  on  the  horizon, 
and  the  fear  of  being  overtaken  by  a  tempest  may 
have  hurried  his  steps,  which  were  certainly  more 
brisk  than  his  evident  lassitude  could  have  desired. 
On  his  back  was  an  almost  empty  bag,  and  he  held  in 
his  hand  a  boxwood  stick,  cut  from  the  tall  broad 
hedges  of  that  shrub,  which  is  so  frequent  in  Lower 
Normandy. 

This  solitary  wayfarer  entered  Carentan,  the  steeples 
of  which,  touched  by  the  moonlight,  had  only  just  ap- 
peared to  him.  His  step  woke  the  echoes  of  the  silent 
streets,  but  he  met  no  one  until  he  came  to  the  shop  of  a 
weaver,  who  was  still  at  work.  From  him  he  inquired 
his  way  to  the  mayor's  house,  and  the  way-worn  re- 
cruit soon  found  himself  seated  in  the  porch  of  that 
establishment,  waiting  for  the  billet  he  had  asked  for. 
Instead  of  receiving  it  at  once,  he  was  summoned  to 
the  mayor's  presence,  where  he  found  himself  the  ob- 
ject of  minute  observation.  The  young  man  was  good- 
looking,  and  belonged,  evidently,  to  a  distinguished 
family.  His  air  and  manner  were  those  of  the  nobility. 
The  intelligence  of  a  s;ood  education  was  in  his  face. 

4 'What  is  your  name?"  asked  the  mayor,  giving 
him  a  shrewd  and  meaning  look. 

"  Julien  Jussieu." 

"  Where  do  you  come  from?  "  continued  the  magis- 
trate, with  a  smile  of  incredulity. 
'"Paris," 

"  Your  comrades  are  at  some  distance,"  resumed 
the  Norman  official,  in  a  sarcastic  tone. 


The  Recruit  241 

"  I  am  nine  miles  in  advance  of  the  battalion." 

"  Some  strong  feeling  must  be  bringing  you  to  Car- 
entan,  citizen  recruit,"  said  the  mayor,  slyly.  "  Very 
good,  very  good,"  he  added  hastily,  silencing  with  a 
wave  of  his  hand  a  reply  the  young  man  was  about  to 
make.  "I  know  where  to  send  you.  Here,"  he 
added,  giving  him  his  billet,  "take  this  and  go  to  that 
house,  Citizen  Jussieu." 

So  saying,  the  mayor  held  out  to  the  recruit  a  billet, 
on  which  the  address  of  Madame  de  Dey's  house  was 
written.  The  young  man  read  it  with  an  air  of 
curiosity. 

11  He  knows  he  has  n't  far  to  go,"  thought  the  mayor 
as  the  recruit  left  the  house.  "  That 's  a  bold  fellow  ! 
God  guide  him!  He  seemed  to  have  his  answers 
ready.  But  he'd  have  been  lost  if  any  one  but  I  had 
questioned  him  and  demanded  to  see  his  papers." 

At  that  instant,  the  clocks  of  Carentan  struck  half- 
past  nine ;  the  lanterns  were  lighted  in  Madame  de 
Dey's  antechamber ;  the  servants  were  helping  their 
masters  and  mistresses  to  put  on  their  clogs,  their 
cloaks,  and  their  mantles ;  the  card-players  had  paid 
their  debts,  and  all  the  guests  were  preparing  to  leave 
together  after  the  established  custom  of  provincial 
towns. 

"  The  prosecutor,  it  seems,  has  stayed  behind,"  said 
a  lady,  perceiving  that  that  important  personage  was 
missing,  when  the  company  parted  in  the  large  square 
to  go  to  their  several  houses. 

That  terrible  magistrate  was,  in  fact,  alone  with  the 
countess,  who  waited,  trembling,  till  it  should  please 
him  to  depart. 

16 


242  The  Recruit. 

k'  Citoyenne,"  he  said,  after  a  long  silence  in  which 
there  was  something  terrifying,  "  I  am  here  to  enforce 
the  laws  of  the  Republic." 

Madame  de  Dey  shuddered. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  reveal  to  me?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"  Nothing,"  she  replied,  astonished. 

44  Ah!  madauie,"  cried  the  prosecutor,  changing  his 
tone  and  seating  himself  beside  her,  "  at  this  moment, 
for  want  of  a  word  between  us,  you  and  I  may  be 
risking  our  heads  on  the  scaffold.  I  have  too  long 
observed  your  character,  your  soul,  your  manners,  to 
share  the  error  into  which  }7ou  have  persuaded  your 
friends  this  evening.  You  are,  I  cannot  doubt,  ex- 
pecting your  son." 

The  countess  made  a  gesture  of  denial ;  but  she  had 
turned  pale,  the  muscles  of  her  face  contracted  from 
the  effort  that  she  made  to  exhibit  firmness,  and  the 
implacable  eye  of  the  public  prosecutor  lost  none  of 
her  movements. 

"  Well,  receive  him,"  continued  the  functionary  of  the 
Revolution,  "  but  do  not  keep  him  under  your  roof 
later  than  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  To-morrow,  at 
eight,  I  shall  be  at  your  door  with  a  denunciation." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  stupid  air  that  might  have 
made  a  tiger  pitiful. 

"  I  will  prove,"  he  continued  in  a  kindly  voice, 
"  the  falsity  of  that  denunciation,  by  making  a  care- 
ful search  of  the  premises  ;  and  the  nature  of  my  re- 
port will  protect  you  in  future  from  all  suspicions.  I 
will  speak  of  your  patriotic  gifts,  your  civic  virtues, 
and  that  will  save  you." 


The  Recruit.  243 

Madame  de  Dey  feared  a  trap,  and  she  stood  mo- 
tionless ;  but  her  face  was  on  fire,  and  her  tongue  stiff 
in  her  mouth.     A  rap  sounded  on  the  door. 

44  Oh !  "  cried  the  mother,  falling  on  her  knees, 
"  save  him  !  save  him  !  " 

"  Yes,  we  will  save  him,"  said  the  official,  giving  her 
a  look  of  passion ;  "  if  it  costs  us  our  life,  we  will  save 
him." 

"I  am  lost!"  she  murmured,  as  the  prosecutor 
raised  her  courteously. 

44  Madame,"  he  said,  with  an  oratorical  movement, 
"  I  will  owe  you  only  —  to  yourself." 

44  Madame,  he  has  come,"  cried  Brigitte,  rushing  in 
and  thinking  her  mistress  was  alone. 

At  sight  of  the  public  prosecutor,  the  old  woman, 
flushed  and  joyous  as  she  was,  became  motionless  and 
livid. 

44  Who  has  come?  "  asked  the  prosecutor. 
44  A   recruit,  whom   the   mayor   has    sent   to   lodge 
here,"  replied  Brigitte,  showing  the  billet. 

44  True,"  said  the   prosecutor,    reading   the   paper. 
44  We  expect  a  detachment  to-night." 
And  he  went  away. 

The  countess  had  too  much  need  at  this  moment  to 
believe  in  the  sincerity  of  her  former  attorney,  to  dis- 
trust his  promise.  She  mounted  the  stairs  rapidly, 
though  her  strength  seemed  failing  her ;  then  she 
opened  the  door,  saw  her  son,  and  fell  into  his  arms 
half  dead,  — 

44  Oh!  my   child!    my   child!"    she  cried,  sobbing, 
and  covering  him  with  kisses  in  a  sort  of  frenzy. 
44  Madame !  "  said  an  unknown  man. 


244  The  Recruit. 

"Ah!  it  is  not  he !  "  she  cried,  recoiling  in  terror, 
and  standing  erect  before  the  recruit,  at  whom  she 
gazed  with  a  haggard  eye. 

"  Holy  Father  !  what  a  likeness  !  "  said  Brigitte. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  The  recruit  him- 
self shuddered  at  the  aspect  of  Madame  de  Dey. 

"  Ah !  monsieur,"  she  said,  leaning  on  Brigitte's 
husband,  who  had  entered  the  room,  and  feeling  to  its 
fullest  extent  an  agony  the  fear  of  which  had  already 
nearly  killed  her.  "  Monsieur,  I  cannot  stay  with 
you  longer.     Allow  my  people  to  attend  upon  you." 

She  returned  to  her  own  room,  half  carried  by 
Brigitte  and  her  old  servant. 

"Oh!  madame,"  said  Brigitte,  as  she  undressed 
her  mistress,  "  must  that  man  sleep  in  Monsieur 
Auguste's  bed,  and  put  on  Monsieur  Auguste's  slip- 
pers, and  eat  the  pate  I  made  for  Monsieur  Auguste? 
They  may  guillotine  me  if  I  —  " 

"  Brigitte  !  "  cried  Madame  de  Dey. 

Brigitte  was  mute. 

"Hush!"  said  her  husband  in  her  ear,  "do  you 
want  to  kill  madame?" 

At  that  moment  the  recruit  made  a  noise  in  the 
room  above  by  sitting  down  to  his  supper. 

"  I  cannot  stay  here  !  "  cried  Madame  de  Dey.  "  I 
will  go  into  the  greenhouse ;  there  I  can  hear  wdiat 
happens  outside  during  the  night." 

She  still  floated  between  the  fear  of  having  lost  her 
son  and  the  hope  of  his  suddenly  appearing. 

The  night  was  horribly  silent.  There  was  one  dread- 
ful moment  for  the  countess,  when  the  battalion  of 
recruits  passed  through   the  town,  and  went  to  their 


The  Recruit.  245 

several  billets.  Every  step,  every  sound,  was  a  hope,  — 
and  a  lost  hope.  After  that  the  stillness  continued. 
Towards  morning  the  countess  was  obliged  to  return 
to  her  room.  Brigitte,  who  watched  her  movements, 
was  uneasy  when  she  did  not  reappear,  and  entering 
the  room  she  found  her  dead. 

"  She  must  have  heard  that  recruit  walking  about 
Monsieur  Auguste's  room,  and  singing  their  damned 
Marseillaise,  as  if  he  were  in  a  stable,"  cried  Brigitte. 
"  That  was  enough  to  kill  her !  " 

The  death  of  the  countess  had  a  far  more  solemn 
cause ;  it  resulted,  no  doubt,  from  an  awful  vision. 
At  the  exact  hour  when  Madame  de  Dey  died  at 
Carentan,  her  son  was  shot  in  the  Morbihan.  That 
tragic  fact  may  be  added  to  many  recorded  observa- 
tions on  sympathies  that  are  known  to  ignore  the  laws 
of  space :  records  which  men  of  solitude  are  collecting 
with  far-seeing  curiosity,  and  which  will  some  day 
serve  as  the  basis  of  a  new  science  for  which,  up.  to 
the  present  time,  a  man  of  genius  has  been  lacking. 


EL   VERDUGO. 


EL    VERDUGO. 


TO   MARTINEZ   DE  LA   ROSA. 


The  clock  of  the  little  town  of  Menda  had  just 
struck  midnight.  At  that  moment  a  young  French 
officer,  leaning  on  the  parapet  of  a  long  terrace  which 
bordered  the  gardens  of  the  chateau  de  Menda,  seemed 
buried  in  thoughts  that  were  deeper  than  comported 
with  the  light-hearted  carelessness  of  military  life ; 
though  it  must  be  said  that  never  were  hour,  scene,  or 
night  more  propitious  for  meditation.  The  beautiful 
sky  of  Spain  spread  its  dome  of  azure  above  his  head. 
The  scintillation  of  the  stars  and  the  soft  light  of  the 
moon  illumined  the  delightful  valley  that  lay  at  his 
feet.  Resting  partly  against  an  orange-tree  in  bloom, 
the  young  major  could  see,  three  hundred  feet  below 
him,  the  town  of  Menda,  at  the  base  of  the  rock  on 
which  the  castle  is  built.  Turning  his  head,  he  looked 
down  upon  the  sea,  the  sparkling  waters  of  which  en- 
circled the  landscape  with  a  sheet  of  silver. 

The  chateau  was  illuminated.  The  joyous  uproar  of 
a  ball,  the  sounds  of  an  orchestra,  the  laughter  of  the 


250  El  Verdugo. 

dancers  came  to  him,  mingling  with  the  distant  mur- 
mur of  the  waves.  The  coolness  of  the  night  gave 
fresh  energy  to  his  body,  that  was  tired  with  the  heat 
of  the  day.  Besides  which,  the  gardens  were  planted 
with  trees  so  balmy  and  flowers  so  sweet,  that  the 
young  man  felt  as  if  plunged  in  a  perfumed  bath. 

The  chateau  de  Menda  belonged  to  a  grandee  of 
Spain,,  who  was  at  this  time  living  there  with  his  fam- 
ily. During  the  whole  evening,  the  eldest  daughter 
had  looked  at  the  young  officer  with  an  interest  express- 
ing extreme  sadness,  and  such  implied  compassion 
on  the  part  of  a  Spaniard  might  well  have  caused  the 
revery  of  the  Frenchman.  Clara  was  beautiful;  and 
though  she  had  three  brothers  and  one  sister,  the 
wealth  of  the  Marquis  de  Leganes  seemed  sufficient  to 
justify  Victor  Marchand  in  believing  that  the  young 
lady  would  be  richly  dowered.  But  could  he  dare  to 
believe  that  the  daughter  of  the  proudest  noble  in 
Spain  would  be  given  to  the  son  of  a  Parisian  grocer? 
Besides,  Frenchmen  were  hated.  The  marquis  having 
been  suspected  by  General  G — t — r,  who  governed 
the  province,  of  preparing  an  insurrection  in  favor  of 
Ferdinand  VII.,  the  battalion  commanded  by  Victor 
Marchand  was  quartered  in  the  little  town  of  Menda, 
to  hold  in  check  the  neighboring;  districts,  which  were 
under  the  control  of  the  Marquis  de  Leganes. 

A  recent  dispatch  from  Marechal  Ney  made  it  seem 
probable  that  the  English  would  soon  land  a  force 
upon  the  coast ;  and  he  mentioned  the  marquis  as  the 
man  who  was  believed  to  be  in  communication  with 
the  cabinet  of  London.  Thus,  in  spite  of  the  cordial 
welcome   which   that   Spaniard    had   given   to   Victor 


El  Verdugo.  251 

Marcliand  and  his  soldiers,  the  young  officer  held  him- 
self perpetually  on  his  guard.  As  he  came  from  the 
ballroom  to  the  terrace,  intending  to  cast  his  eye  upon 
the  state  of  the  town  and  the  outlying  districts  con- 
fided to  his  care,  he  asked  himself  how  he  ought  to 
interpret  the  good  will  which  the  marquis  never  failed 
to  show  him,  and  whether  the  fears  of  his  general  were 
warranted  by  the  apparent  tranquillity  of  the  region. 
But  no  sooner  had  he  reached  the  terrace  than  these 
thoughts  were  driven  from  his  mind  by  a  sense  of  pru- 
dence, and  also  by  natural  curiosity. 

He  saw  in  the  town  a  great  number  of  lights.  Al- 
though it  was  the  feast  of  Saint  James,  he  had,  that 
very  morning,  ordered  that  all  lights  should  be  put  out 
at  the  hour  prescribed  in  the  army  regulations,  those 
of  the  chateau  alone  excepted.  He  saw,  it  is  true,  the 
bayonets  of  his  soldiers  gleaming  here  and  there  at 
their  appointed  posts  ;  but  the  silence  was  solemn,  and 
nothing  indicated  that  the  Spaniards  were  disregarding 
his  orders  in  the  intoxication  of  a  fete.  Endeavoring 
to  explain  to  himself  this  culpable  and  deliberate  in- 
fraction of  rules  on  the  part  of  the  inhabitants,  it 
struck  him  as  the  more  incomprehensible  because  he 
had  left  a  number  of  his  officers  in  charge  of  patrols 
who  were  to  make  their  rounds  during  the  night,  and 
enforce  the  regulations. 

With  the  impetuosity  of  youth,  he  was  about  to 
spring  through  an  opening  in  the  terrace  wall,  and 
descend  by  the  rocks  more  rapidly  than  by  the  usual 
road  to  a  little  outpost  which  he  had  placed  at  the 
entrance  of  the  town,  on  the  side  toward  the  chateau, 
when   a   slight   noise    arrested    him.     He    fancied   he 


252  El  Verdugo. 

heard  the  light  step  of  a  woman  on  the  gravelled  path 
behind  him.  He  turned  his  head  and  saw  no  one,  but 
his  eyes  were  caught  by  an  extraordinary  light  upon 
the  ocean.  Suddenly  he  beheld  a  sight  so  alarming 
that  he  stood  for  a  moment  motionless  with  surprise, ' 
fancying  that  his  senses  were  mistaken.  The  white 
rays  of  the  moonlight  enabled  him  to  distinguish  sails 
at  some  distance.  He  tried  to  convince  himself  that 
this  vision  was  an  optical  delusion  caused  by  the 
caprices  of  the  waves  and  the  moon.  At  that  moment, 
a  hoarse  voice  uttered  his  name.  He  looked  toward 
the  opening  in  the  wall,  and  saw  the  head  of  the 
orderly  who  had  accompanied  him  to  the  chateau  ris- 
ing cautiously  through  it. 

44  Is  it  you,  commander?" 

44  Yes.  What  is  it?"  replied  the  young  man,  in  a 
low  voice,  a  sort  of  presentiment  warning  him  to  act 
mysteriously. 

44  Those  rascals  are  squirming  like  worms,"  said  the 
man  ;  44  and  I  have  come,  if  you  please,  to  tell  you  my 
little  observations." 

44  Speak  out." 

44 1  have  just  followed  from  the  chateau  a  man  with 
a  lantern  who  is  coming  this  way.  A  lantern  is 
mightily  suspicious  !  I  don't  believe  that  Christian  has 
any  call  to  go  and  light  the  church  tapers  at  this  time 
of  night.  They  want  to  murder  us !  said  I  to  myself, 
so  I  followed  his  heels ;  and  I  've  discovered,  com- 
mander, close  by  here,  on  a  pile  of  rock,  a  great  heap 
of  fagots  —  he 's  after  lighting  a  beacon  of  some  kind 
up  here,  I  '11  be  bound  —  " 

A  terrible  cry  echoing  suddenly  through  the  town 


El  Verdugo.  253 

stopped  the  soldier's  speech.  A  brilliant  light  illum- 
inated the  young  officer.  The  poor  orderly  was  shot 
in  the  head  and  fell.  A  fire  of  straw  and  dry  wood 
blazed  up  like  a  conflagration  not  thirty  feet  distant 
from  the  young  commander.  The  music  and  the 
laughter  ceased  in  the  ballroom.  The  silence  of 
death,  broken  only  03-  moans,  succeeded  to  the  joyous 
sounds  of  a  festival.  A  single  cannon-shot  echoed 
along  the  plain  of  the  ocean. 

A  cold  sweat  rolled  from  the  officer's  brow.  He 
wore  no  sword.  He  was  confident  that  his  soldiers 
were  murdered,  and  that  the  English  were  about  to 
disembark.  He  saw  himself  dishonored  if  he  lived, 
summoned  before  a  council  of  war  to  explain  his  want 
of  vigilance ;  then  he  measured  with  his  eye  the 
depths  of  the  descent,  and  was  springing  towards  it 
when  Clara's  hand  seized  his. 

"  Fly !  "  she  said  ;  "  my  brothers  are  following  me 
to  kill  you.  Your  soldiers  are  killed.  Escape  your- 
self. At  the  foot  of  the  rock,  over  there,  see!  you 
will  find  Juanito's  barb  —  Go,  go  !  " 

She  pushed  him  ;  but  the  stupefied  young  man  looked 
at  her,  motionless,  for  a  moment.  Then,  obeying  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation  which  never  abandons  any 
man,  even  the  strongest,  he  sprang  through  the  park 
in  the  direction  indicated,  running  among  rocks  where 
goats  alone  had  hitherto  made  their  way.  He  heard 
Clara  calling  to  her  brothers  to  pursue  him ;  he  heard 
the  steps  of  his  murderers ;  he  heard  the  balls  of  sev- 
eral muskets  whistling  about  his  ears  ;  but  he  reached 
the  valley,  found  the  horse,  mounted  him,  and  disap- 
peared with  the  rapidity  of  an  arrow. 


254  El  Verdugo. 

A  few  hours  later  the  young  officer  reached  the 
headquarters  of  General  G — t — r,  whom  he  found  at 
dinner  with  his  staff. 

"  I  bring  you  my  head!  "  cried  the  commander  of 
the  lost  battalion  as  he  entered,  pale  and  overcome. 

He  sat  down  and  related  the  horrible  occurrence. 
An  awful  silence  followed  his  tale. 

"  I  think  you  more  unfortunate  than  criminal,"  re- 
plied the  terrible  general,  when  at  last  he  spoke. 
"  You  are  not  responsible  for  the  crime  of  those  Span- 
iards ;  and,  unless  the  marshal  should  think  otherwise, 
I  absolve  you." 

These  words  gave  but  a  feeble  consolation  to  the  un- 
happy officer. 

"  But  when  the  emperor  hears  of  it !  "  he  cried. 

"  He  will  want  to  have  you  shot,"  said  the  general; 
"  but  we  will  see  about  that.  Now,"  he  added  in  a 
stern  tone,  "  not  another  word  of  this,  except  to  turn 
it  into  a  vengeance  which  shall  impress  with  salutary 
terror  a  people  who  make  war  like  savages." 

An  hour  later  a  whole  regiment,  a  detachment  of 
cavalry,  and  a  battery  of  artillery  were  on  their  way 
to  Menda.  The  general  and  Victor  marched  at  the 
head  of  the  column.  The  soldiers,  informed  of  the  \ 
massacre  of  their  comrades,  were  possessed  by  fury. 
The  distance  which  separated  the  town  of- Menda 
from  general  headquarters,  was  marched  with  marvel- 
lous rapidity.  On  the  way,  the  general  found  all  the 
villages  under  arms.  Each  of  the  wretched  hamlets 
was  surrounded,  and  the  inhabitants  decimated. 

By  one  of  those  fatalities  which  are  inexplicable,  the 
British  ships  lay  to  without  advancing.     It  was  known 


El  Verdugo.  255 

later  that  these  vessels  carried  the  artillery,  and  had 
outsailed  the  rest  of  the  transports.  Thus  the  town  of 
Menda,  deprived  of  the  support  it  expected,  and  which 
the  appearance  of  the  British  fleet  in  the  offing  had  led 
the  inhabitants  to  suppose  was  at  hand,  was  sur- 
rounded by  French  troops  almost  without  a  blow  being 
struck.  The  people  of  the  town,  seized  with  terror, 
offered  to  surrender  at  discretion.  With  a  spirit  of 
devotion  not  rare  in  the  Peninsula,  the  slayers  of  the 
French  soldiery,  fearing,  from  the  cruelty  of  their  com- 
mander, that  Menda  would  be  given  to  the  flames,  and 
the  whole  population  put  to  the  sword,  proposed  to  the 
general  to  denounce  themselves.  He  accepted  their 
offer,  making  a  condition  that  the  inhabitants  of  the 
chateau,  from  the  marquis  to  the  lowest  valet,  should 
be  delivered  into  his  hands.  This  condition  being 
agreed  to,  the  general  proceeded  to  pardon  the  rest  of 
the  population,  and  to  prevent  his  soldiers  from  pil- 
lao-ins:  the  town  or  setting  fire  to  it.  An  enormous 
tribute  was  levied,  and  the  wealthiest  inhabitants  held 
prisoners  to  secure  the  payment  of  it,  which  payment 
was  to  be  made  within  twenty-four  hours. 

The  general  took  all  precautions  necessary  for  the 
safety  of  his  troops,  and  provided  for  the  defence  of 
the  region  from  outside  attack,  refusing  to  allow  his 
soldiers  to  be  billeted  in  the  houses.  After  putting 
them  in  camp,  he  went  up  to  the  chateau  and  took  pos- 
session of  it.  The  members  of  the  Leganes  family 
and  their  servants  were  bound  and  kept  under  guard 
in  the  great  hall  where  the  ball  had  taken  place.  The 
windows  of  this  room  commanded  the  terrace  which 
overhung  the  town.     Headquarters  were  established  in 


256  El  Verdugo. 

one  of  the  galleries,  where  the  general  held,  in  the 
first  place,  a  council  as  to  the  measures  that  should  be 
taken  to  prevent  the  landing  of  the  British.  After 
sending  an  aide-de-camp  to  Marechal  Ney,  and  having 
ordered  batteries  to  certain  points  along  the  shore,  the 
general  and  his  staff  turned  their  attention  to  the  pris- 
oners. Two  hundred  Spaniards  who  had  delivered 
themselves  up  were  immediately  shot.  After  this  mili- 
tary execution,  the  general  ordered  as  many  gibbets 
planted  on  the  terrace  as  there  were  members  of  the 
family  of  Leganes,  and  he  sent  for  the  executioner 
of  the  town. 

Victor  Marchand  took  advantage  of  the  hour  before 
dinner,  to  go  and  see  the  prisoners.  Before  long  he 
returned  to  the  general. 

"  I  have  come,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  full  of  feeling, 
"  to  ask  for  mercy." 

"  You  !  "  said  the  general,  in  a  tone  of  bitter  irony. 

"Alas!  "  replied  Victor,  "it  is  only  a  sad  mercy. 
The  marquis,  who  has  seen  those  gibbets  set  up,  hopes 
that  you  will  change  that  mode  of  execution.  He  asks 
you  to  behead  his  family,  as  befits  nobility." 

"  So  be  it,"  replied  the  general. 

"  They  also  ask  for  religious  assistance,  and  to  be 
released  from  their  bonds ;  they  promise  in  return  to 
make  no  attempt  to  escape." 

"I  consent,"  said  the  general;  "but  I  make  you 
responsible  for  them." 

"  The  marquis  offers  you  his  whole  fortune,  if  you 
will  consent  to  pardon  one  of  his  sons." 

"  Really  !  "  exclaimed  the  general.  "  His  property 
belongs  already  to  King  Joseph." 


El  Verdugo.  257 

He  stopped.  A  thought,  a  contemptuous  thought, 
wrinkled  his  brow,  and  he  said  presently,  — 

44 1  will  surpass  his  wishes.  I  comprehend  the  im- 
portance of  his  last  request.  Well,  he  shall  buy  the 
continuance  of  his  name  and  lineage,  but  Spain  shall 
forever  connect  with  it  the  memory  of  his  treachery 
and  his  punishment.  I  will  give  life  and  his  whole 
fortune  to  whichever  of  his  sons  will  perform  the 
office  of  executioner  on  the  rest.  Go ;  not  another 
word  to  me  on  the  subject." 

Dinner  was  served.  The  officers  satisfied  an  appe- 
tite sharpened  by  exertion.  A  single  one  of  them, 
Victor  Marchand,  was  not  at  the  feast.  After  hesitat- 
ing long,  he  returned  to  the  hall  where  the  proud  family 
of  Leganes  were  prisoners,  casting  a  mournful  look  on 
the  scene  now  presented  in  that  apartment  where, - 
only  two  nights  before,  he  had  seen  the  heads  of  the 
two  young  girls  and  the  three  young  men  turning  gid- 
dily in  the  waltz.  He  shuddered  as  he  thought  how 
soon  they  would  fall,  struck  off  by  the  sabre  of  the 
executioner. 

Bound  in  their  gilded  chairs,  the  father  and  mother, 
the  three  sons,  and  the  two  daughters,  sat  rigid  in 
a  state  of  complete  immobility.  Eight  servants  stood 
near  them,  their  arms  bound  behind  their  backs. 
These  fifteen  persons  looked  at  one  another  gravely, 
their  eyes  scarcely  betraying  the  sentiments  that  filled 
their  souls.  The  sentinels,  also  motionless,  watched 
them,  but  respected  the  sorrow  of  those  cruel  enemies. 

An  expression  of  inquiry  came  upon  the  faces  of  all 
when  Victor  appeared.  He  gave  the  order  to  unbind 
the  prisoners,  and  went  himself  to  unfasten  the   cords 

17 


258  El  Verdugo, 

that  held  Clara  in  her  chair.  She  smiled  sadly.  The 
officer  could  not  help  touching  softly  the  arms  of  the 
young  girl  as  he  looked  with  sad  admiration  at  her 
beautiful  hair  and  her  supple  figure.  She  was  a  true 
Spaniard,  having  the  Spanish  complexion,  the  Spanish 
eyes  with  their  curved  lashes,  and  their  large  pupils 
blacker  than  a  raven's  wing. 

"  Have  you  succeeded? '  she  said,  with  one  of  those 
funereal  smiles  in  which  something  of  girlhood  lingers. 

Victor  could  not  keep  himself  from  groaning.  He 
looked  in  turn  at  the  three  brothers,  and  then  at  Clara. 
One  brother,  the  eldest,  was  thirty  years  of  age. 
Though  small  and  somewhat  ill-made,  with  an  air  that 
was  haughty  and  disdainful,  he  was  not  lacking  in  a 
certain  nobility  of  manner,  and  he  seemed  to  have 
something  of  that  delicacy  of  feeling  which  made  the 
Spanish  chivalry  of  other  days  so  famous.  He  was 
named  Juanito.  The  second  son,  Felipe,  was  about 
twenty  years  of  age  ;  he  resembled  Clara.  The  young- 
est was  eight.  A  painter  would  have  seen  in  the 
features  of  Manuelo  a  little  of  that  Roman  constancy 
that  David  has  given  to  children  in  his  republican 
pages.  The  head  of  the  old  marquis,  covered  with 
flowing  white  hair,  seemed  to  have  escaped  from  a  pic- 
ture of  Murillo.  As  he  looked  at  them,  the  young- 
officer  shook  his  head,  despairing  that  any  one  of  those 
four  beings  would  accept  the  dreadful  bargain  of  the 
general.  Nevertheless,  he  found  courage  to  reveal  it 
to  Clara. 

The  girl  shuddered  for  a  moment ;  then  she  recov- 
ered her  calmness,  and  went  to  her  father,  kneeling  at 
his  feet. 


El  Verdugo.  259 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said  to  him,  "  make  Juanito  swear  that 
he  will  obey,  faithfully,  the  orders  that  you  will  give 
him,  and  our  wishes  will  be  fulfilled." 

The  marquise  quivered  with  hope.  But  when,  lean- 
ing against  her  husband,  she  heard  the  horrible  confi- 
dence  that  Clara  now  made  to  him,  the  mother  fainted. 
Juanito,  on  hearing  the  offer,  bounded  like  a  lion  in 
his  cage. 

Victor  took  upon  himself  to  send  the  guard  away, 
after  obtaining  from  the  marquis  a  promise  of  abso- 
lute submission.  The  servants  were  delivered  to  the 
executioner,  who  hanged  them. 

AVhen  the  family  were  alone,  with  no  one  but  Victor 
to  watch  them,  the  old  father  rose. 

"  Juanito!  "  he  said. 

Juanito  answered  only  with  a  motion  of  the  head 
that  signified  refusal,  falling  back  into  his  chair,  and 
looking  at  his  parents  with  dry  and  awful  eyes.  Clara 
went  up  to  him  with  a  cheerful  air  and  sat  upon  his  knee. 

"  Dear  Juanito,"  she  said,  passing  her  arm  around 
his  neck  and  kissing  his  eyelids,  "  if  you  knew  how 
sweet  death  would  seem  to  me  if  given  by  you ! 
Think !  I  should  be  spared  the  odious  touch  of  an 
executioner.  You  would  save  me  from  all  the  woes 
that  await  me  —  and,  oh!  clear  Juanito!  }7ou  would 
not  have  me  belong  to  any  one  —  therefore  —  " 

Her  velvet  eyes  cast  gleams  of  fire  at  Victor,  as  if 
to  rouse  in  the  heart  of  Juanito  his  hatred  of  the 
French. 

"Have  courage,"  said  his  brother  Felipe;  "other- 
wise our  race,  our  almost  royal  race,  must  die  extinct." 

Suddenly    Clara  rose,   the  group   that    had    formed 


260  El  Verdugo. 

about  Juanito  separated,  and  the  son,  rebellious  with 
good  reason,  saw  before  him  his  old  father  standing 
erect,  who  said  in  solemn  tones,  — 

"  Juanito,  I  command  you  to  obey." 

The  young  count  remained  immovable.  Then  his 
father  knelt  at  his  feet.  Involuntarily  Clara,  Felipe, 
and  Manuelo  imitated  his  action.  They  all  stretched 
out  their  hands  to  him,  who  was  to  save  the  family 
from  extinction,  and  each  seemed  to  echo  the  words  of 
the  father. 

"My  son,  can  it  be  that  you  would  fail  in  Spanish 
energy  and  true  feeling  ?  Will  you  leave  me  longer  on 
my  knees?  Why  do  you  consider  your  life,  your  suffer- 
ings only?  Is  this  my  son?  "  he  added,  turning  to  his 
wife. 

"  He  consents!  "  cried  the  mother,  in  despair,  see- 
ing a  motion  of  Juanito's  eyelids,  the  meaning  of  which 
was  known  to  her  alone. 

Mariquita,  the  second  daughter,  was  on  her  knees 
pressing  her  mother  in  her  feeble  arms,  and  as  she 
wept  hot  tears  her  little  brother  scolded  her. 

At  this  moment  the  chaplain  of  the  chateau  entered  the 
hall ;  the  family  instantly  surrounded  him  and  led  him  to 
Juanito.  Victor,  unable  to  endure  the  scene  any  longer, 
made  a  sign  to  Clara,  and  went  away,  determined  to 
make  one  more  attempt  upon  the  general. 

He  found  him  in  fine  good-humour,  in  the  midst  of  a 
banquet,  drinking  with  his  officers,  who  were  growing 
hilarious. 

An  hour  later,  one  hundred  of  the  leading  inhabi- 
tants of  Menda  assembled  on  the   terrace,   according 


El  Verdugo.  261 

to  the  orders  of  the  general,  to  witness  the  execution 
of  the  Legaiies  family.  A  detachment  of  soldiers 
were  posted  to  restrain  the  Spaniards,  stationed  be- 
neath the  gallows  on  which  the  servants  had  been 
handed.  The  heads  of  the  burghers  almost  touched  the 
feet  of  these  martyrs.  Thirty  feet  from  this  group 
was  a  block,  and  on  it  glittered  a  scimetar.  An  exe- 
cutioner was  present  in  case  Juanito  refused  his  obedi- 
ence at  the  last  moment. 

Soon  the  Spaniards  heard,  in  the  midst  of  the  deep- 
est silence,  the  steps  of  many  persons,  the  measured 
sound  of  the  march  of  soldiers,  and  the  slight  rattle  of 
their  accoutrements.  These  noises  mingled  with  the 
gay  laughter  of  the  officers,  as  a  few  nights  earlier  the 
dances  of  a  ball  had  served  to  mask  the  preparations 
for  a  bloody  treachery.  All  eyes  turned  to  the  chateau 
and  saw  the  noble  family  advancing  with  inconceivable 
composure.     Their  faces  were  serene  and  calm. 

One  member  alone,  pale,  undone,  leaned  upon  the 
priest,  who  spent  his  powers  of  religious  consolation 
upon  this  man,  — the  only  one  who  was  to  live.  The 
executioner  knew,  as  did  all  present,  that  Juanito  had 
agreed  to  accept  his  place  for  that  one  day.  The  old 
marquis  and  his  wife,  Clara,  Mariquita,  and  the  two 
younger  brothers  walked  forward  and  knelt  down  a 
few  steps  distant  from  the  fatal  block.  Juanito  was 
led  forward  by  the  priest.  When  he  reached  the  place 
the  executioner  touched  him  on  the  arm  and  gave  him, 
probably,  a  few  instructions.  The  confessor,  mean- 
time, turned  the  victims  so  that  they  might  not  see  the 
fatal  blows.  But,  like  true  Spaniards,  they  stood  erect 
without  faltering. 


282  El  Verdugo. 

Clara  was  the  first  to  come  forward. 

"  Juanito,"  she  said,  "  have  pity  on  my  want  of 
courage  ;   begin  with  me." 

At  this  instant  the  hurried  steps  of  a  man  were 
heard,  and  Victor  Marchand  appeared  on  the  terrace. 
Clara  was  already  on  her  knees,  her  white  neck  bared 
for  the  scimetar.  The  officer  turned  pale,  but  he  ran 
with  all  his  might. 

"The  general  grants  your  life  if  you  will  marry 
me,"  he  said  to  her  in  a  low  voice. 

The  Spanish  girl  cast  upon  the  officer  a  look  of  pride 
and  contempt. 

"  Go  on,  Juanito! '  she  said,  in  a  deep  voice,  and 
her  head  rolled  at  Victor's  feet. 

The  Marquise  de  Leganes  made  one  convulsive 
movement  as  she  heard  that  sound ;  it  was  the  only 
sign  she  gave  of  sorrow. 

"  Am  I  placed  right  this  way,  my  good  Juanito?' 
asked  the  little  Manuelo  of  his  brother. 

"Ah!  you  are  weeping,  Mariquita !  "  said  Juanito 
to  his  sister. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  think  of  you,  my  poor  Juanito  ; 
how  lonely  you  will  be  without  us." 

Soon  the  grand  figure  of  the  marquis  came  forward. 
He  looked  at  the  blood  of  his  children;  he  turned  to 
the  mute  and  motionless  spectators,  and  said  in  a 
strong  voice,  stretching  his  hands  toward  Juanito,  — 

"Spaniards!  I  give  rc^  son  my  fatherly  blessing! 
Now,  Marquis,  strike,  without  fear  —  you  are  without 
reproach." 

But  when  Juanito  saw  his  mother  approach  him,  sup- 
ported by  the  priest,  he  cried  out :   "  She  bore  me  ! ' 


El  Verdugo.  263 

A  cry  of  horror  broke  from  all  present.  The  noise 
of  the  feast  and  the  jovial  laughter  of  the  officers 
ceased  at  that  terrible  clamor.  The  marquise  compre- 
hended that  Juanito's  courage  was  exhausted,  and 
springing  with  one  bound  over  the  parapet,  she  was 
dashed  to  pieces  on  the  rocks  below.  A  sound  of  ad- 
miration rose.     Juanito  had  fallen  senseless. 

"  General,"  said  an  officer,  who  was  half  drunk, 
"  Marchand  has  just  told  me  the  particulars  of  that 
execution  down  there.  I  will  bet  you  never  ordered 
it." 

"  Do  you  forget,  messieurs,"  cried  General  G — t — r, 
"that  five  hundred  French  families  are  plunged  in 
affliction,  and  that  we  are  now  in  Spain?  Do  you  wish 
to  leave  our  bones  in  its  soil  ?  " 

After  that  allocution,  no  one,  not  even  a  sub-lieuten- 
ant, had  the  courage  to  empty  his  glass. 

In  spite  of  the  respect  with  which  he  is  surrounded, 
in  spite  of  the  title  El  Verdugo  (the  executioner) 
which  the  King  of  Spain  bestowed  as  a  title  of  nobility 
on  the  Marquis  de  Leganes,  he  is  a  prey  to  sorrow ; 
he  lives  in  solitude,  and  is  seldom  seen.  Overwhelmed 
with  the  burden  of  his  noble  crime,  he  seems  to  await 
with  impatience  the  birth  of  a  second  son,  which  will 
give  him  the  right  to  rejoin  the  Shades  who  ceaselessly 
accompany  him. 


THE    ELIXIR   OF   LIFE. 


TO   THE   READER. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  author's  literary  life,  a  friend, 
long  since  dead,  gave  him  the  subject  of  this  Study,  which, 
later,  he  found  in  a  collection  of  tales,  published  in  the  early 
part  of  this  century.  It  is,  as  he  conjectures,  a  fantastic 
conception  due  to  Hoffman  of  Berlin,  published  perhaps  in 
some  German  almanac  and  forgotten  among  his  works  by 
the  publishers.  The  Comedy  of  Human  Life  is  sufficiently 
rich  in  original  inventions  to  allow  the  author  to  confess  an 
innocent  loan  ;  like  the  good  la  Fontaine,  he  has  used,  in 
his  own  manner,  and  without  knowing  that  he  did  so,  a  tale 
already  told. 

This  is  not  one  of  those  grotesque  histories  in  fashion 
about  1830,  when  authors  invented  atrocities  to  please 
young  girls.  When  you  reach  the  parricide  of  Don  Juan, 
try  to  imagine  what  conduct  would  be  pursued  under 
analogous  circumstances  by  honest  folk  who,  in  the  nine- 
teenth century  take  money  for  annuities  relying  on  a 
catarrh,  or  life-lease  a  house  to  an  old  woman  for  the  rest 
of  her  days.  Would  they  resuscitate  their  deceased  annui- 
tants? I  wish  that  a  jury  of  conscience-weighers  would 
inquire  into  the  degree  of  likeness  which  exists  between  Don 
Juan  and  those  fathers  who  marry  their  children  on  the 
score  of  "expectations."  Does  human  society,  which  ad- 
vances —  if  we  believe  certain  philosophers  —  in  the  path  of 
progress,  consider  the  art  of  counting  upon  death  a  step  in 
that  path?  This  art,  or  science,  has  created  honorable  occu- 
pations by  means  of  which  men  live  on  death.  It  is  the 
business  of  certain  persons  to  hope  for  a  decease ;  they  crouch 


268  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

every  morning  upon  a  corpse  ;  it  is  their  pillow  by  night, 
they  brood  upon  it  like  a  hen  upon  her  eggs,  —  witness  coad- 
jutors, cardinals,  substitutes,  tontineers,  etc.  Add  to  these, 
other  persons  who  hasten  to  buy  a  property  the  price  of 
which  is  beyond  their  means,  and  who  reckon  logically  and 
coldly  the  chances  of  life  which  still  remain  to  their  fathers  and 
their  mothers-in-law,  saying  to  themselves  :  "  Three  years 
hence  I  shall  certainly  inherit  thus  and  so,  and  then  — " 
A  murderer  disgusts  us  less  than  a  spy.  The  murderer  has 
yielded  perhaps  to  a  mad  impulse,  he  may  repent  and  redeem 
himself  ;  but  a  spy  is  always  a  spy,  —  a  spy  day  and  night,  in 
bed,  at  table,  everywhere ;  he  is  vile  at  all  times.  What 
is  a  murderer,  therefore,  when  vile  as  the  spy  is  vile  ?  Well, 
do  you  not  see  in  the  bosom  of  society  a  crowd  of  human 
beings  led  by  our  laws,  by  our  customs,  by  our  morals,  to 
think  incessantly  of  the  death  of  their  relations  and  to  wish 
for  it  ?  They  weigh  the  value  of  a  coffin  as  they  bargain  for 
shawls  for  their  wives,  as  they  go  up  the  steps  of  a  theatre, 
as  they  wish  for  a  box  at  the  opera  and  long  for  a  carriage. 
They  meet  eyes  they  fain  would  close,  which  open  every 
morning  to  the  light,  like  those  of  Bartolommeo  Belvedere 
in  this  Study.  God  alone  knows  the  number  of  parricides 
committed  in  thought. 

Imagine  a  man  having  to  pay  an  annuity  of  three  thou- 
sand francs  to  an  old  woman,  both  of  them  living  in  the 
country,  separated  only  by  a  rivulet,  but  sufficiently  apart 
to  hate  each  other  cordially  without  failing  in  the  social 
conventions,  which  put  a  mask  on  the  faces  of  two  brothers 
one  of  whom  is  heir  to  the  entailed  estate,  the  other  to  the 
younger  son's  portion  only.  European  civilization  rests  on 
Heredity  as  on  a  pivot ;  it  would  be  folly  to  suppress  it ; 
but  could  we  not,  as  in  so  many  of  the  machines  which 
are  the  pride  of  our  age,  improve  and  perfect  its  running 
gear? 

If  the  author  here  preserves  the  old-fashioned  formula, 
"  To  the  Reader,"  it  is  that  he  may  place  in  this  dedication 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  269 

a  remark  relative  to  certain  of  these  Studies,  and  more  par- 
ticularly to  this  one.  Each  of  these  compositions  is  based 
on  an  Idea,  more  or  less  novel,  the  expression  of  which  seems 
to  him  useful.  He  may,  in  fact,  claim  priority  for  certain 
ideas  and  certain  thoughts  which  have  now  passed  into  the 
domain  of  literature  and  have  even  become  truisms.  The 
dates  of  the  earliest  publication  of  each  Study  can  alone 
prove  the  justice  of  this  claim. 

Print  gives  us  many  an  unknown  friend ;  and  what  a  friend 
is  a  reader  !  —  we  have  personal  friends  who  never  read  a 
a  word  of  our  writings !  The  author  hopes  to  pay  his  debt 
of  gratitude  in  dedicating  this  work 

Dns  Ignotis. 


THE    ELIXIR    OF    LIFE. 


In  a  sumptuous  palace  at  Ferrara,  on  a  winter's 
evening,  Don  Juan  Belvedere  was  entertaining  at  sup- 
per a  prince  of  the  house  of  Este.  In  those  days  such 
fetes  were  marvellous  spectacles,  which  the  royal 
wealth  and  power  of  the  great  seigneurs  could  alone 
command. 

Seated  around  a  table  lighted  by  perfumed  candles, 
seven  joyous  women  were  exchanging  gay  remarks 
among  admirable  works  of  art,  the  dazzling  marble 
of  which  detached  itself  from  panels  of  red  stucco  and 
contrasted  finely  with  the  tones  of  a  Turkey  carpet. 
Gowned  in  satin  and  sparkling  with  gold  and  jewels, 
less  bright,  however,  than  their  eyes,  they  all  related 
vivid  passions  as  diverse  as  the  styles  of  their  various 
beauties.  They  did  not  differ  in  topics  or  in  ideas ; 
but  variations  of  air,  looks,  gesture,  accent,  gave  to 
their  words  a  libertine,  lascivious,  melancholy,  or  jeer- 
ing character. 

One  seemed  to  say:  "My  beauty  can  warm  the 
hearts  of  old  men." 

Another:  "I  love  to  lie  couched  on  cushions  and 
dream  with  passion  of  those  who  adore  me." 


272  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

A  third  (novice  at  such  fetes,  she  tried  to  blush)  : 
"  In  my  heart  I  feel  remorse.  I  am  Catholic  aud  I 
fear  hell.  But  I  love  you,  oh  !  so  much,  so  much  that 
I  can  sacrifice  to  you  eternity." 

The  fourth,  draining  a  cup  of  Chio  wine,  seemed  to 
cry:  "All  hail  to  gayety !  I  take  a  new  existence 
from  every  dawn  !  Forgetful  of  the  past,  each  day  I 
exhaust  a  life  of  joy,  a  life  of  love !  " 

The  woman  seated  next  to  Belvedere  looked  at  him 
with  naming  eye.  She  was  silent,  but  that  eye  said: 
"  I  will  trust  no  bravi  to  kill  my  lover,  if  he  abandons 
me."  Then  she  laughed,  but  her  convulsive  hand 
crushed  a  golden  comfit-box,  marvellously  chased. 

"When  will  you  be  grand-duke?  "  asked  the  sixth, 
addressing  the  prince,  with  an  expression  of  murderous 
joy  in  her  teeth,  the  delirium  of  a  bacchante  in  her 
eyes. 

"And  you,  when  will  your  father  die?"  said  the 
seventh,  laughing,  and  flinging  her  bouquet  at  Don  Juan 
with  intoxicating  sportiveness.  This  was  a  fresh 
young  girl,  whose  way  it  was  to  jest  of  sacred  things. 

"Ah!  don't  speak  of  that,"  cried  the  young  and 
handsome  Don  Juan.  "  There  is  but  one  eternal  father 
in  the  world,  and  an  evil  fate  has  given  him  to  me." 

The  seven  courtesans  of  Ferrara,  the  friends  of  Don 
Juan,  and  the  prince  himself,  gave  a  cry  of  horror. 
Two  hundred  years  later,  under  Louis  XV.,  people  of 
taste  would  have  laughed  at  that  outburst.  But  per- 
haps at  the  beginning  of  an  orgy  minds  are  still  lucid. 
In  spite  of  the  blaze  of  lights,  the  cry  of  passions,  the 
glitter  of  gold  and  silver,  the  fumes  of  wine,  in  spite 
of   the   contemplation   of   beautiful    women,    perhaps 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  273 

there  still  remained  in  the  depths  of  all  hearts  a  little 
of  that  shame  for  things  human  and  divine  which 
struggle  one  against  another  until  the  orgy  drowns 
all  compunction  in  floods  of  wine.  That  moment 
came  ;  the  flowers  were  crushed,  the  eyes  stupefied, 
drunkenness,  to  use  Rabelais'  expression,  laid  hold  of 
all.  to  their  very  sandals. 

At  this  moment  a  door  opened;  and,  as  at  Bel- 
shazzar's  feast,  God  made  known  his  presence.  He 
came  in  the  semblance  of  an  old  servant  with  white  hair, 
and  trembling  limbs,  and  shrunken  brow,  who  entered 
with  a  sad  air,  and  withered  with  a  look  the  garlands, 
the  gold  and  silver  cups,  the  pyramids  of  fruit,  the 
glitter  of  the  feast,  the  crimson  of  the  startled  faces, 
the  colors  of  the  cushions  on  which  the  white  arms 
of  the  women  rested.  The  old  man  threw  a  veil  of 
crape  upon  this  scene  of  folly  as  he  said,  in  a  hollow 
voice,  — 

"  Monsieur,  your  father  is  dying." 
Don  Juan  rose,  and  made  a  sign  to  his  guests  which 
might  be  interpreted,   "Excuse  me,  for  this  doesn't 
happen  every  day." 

The  death  of  a  father  often  overtakes  young  men 
amid  the  splendors  of  life,  and  the  mad  ideas  of  an 
orgy.  Death  is  as  sudden  in  its  caprices  as  a  courtesan 
in  her  disdains  ;  but,  more  faithful,  she  deceives  none. 
When  Don  Juan  had  closed  the  door  of  the  room, 
and  was  walking  along  a  cold  dark  gallery  to  his 
father's  apartment,  he  endeavored  to  call  up  a  suit- 
able countenance ;  for,  remembering  his  r61e  of  son, 
he  had  flung  down  his  gayety  with  his  napkin.  The 
night  was  dark ;  the  silent  servitor,  who  conducted  the 

18 


274  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

young  man  to  the  mortuary  chamber,  scarcely  lighted 
the  way ;  so  that  Death,  assisted  by  the  cold,  the  si- 
lence, the  obscurity,  perhaps  by  a  reaction  from  drunk- 
enness, was  able  to  slip  a  few  reflections  into  the  mind 
of  this  spendthrift ;  he  questioned  his  life,  and  wTas 
thoughtful,  like  a  man  with  a  case  to  be  tried  on  his 
way  to  court. 

Bartolommeo  Belvedere,  father  of  Don  Juan,  was  an 
old  man  in  the  nineties,  who  had  spent  the  greater  part 
of  his  life  in  the  transactions  of  commerce.  Having 
scoured  the  talismanic  countries  of  the  Orient,  he  had 
there  acquired  enormous  wealth,  and  knowledge  more 
precious,  he  said,  than  gold  or  diamonds,  for  which  he 
now  cared  nothing.  "  I  prefer  a  tooth  to  a  ruby,  and 
power  to  money,"  he  said,   smiling. 

A  kind  father,  he  liked  to  hear  Don  Juan  relate  his 
youthful  pranks,  and  he  would  say,  with  a  jovial  air, 
lavishing  gold  upon  his  son:  "My  dear  boy,  commit 
no  follies  but  those  which  amuse  you."  He  was  one 
of  those  rare  old  men  who  take  pleasure  in  seeing 
youth  ;  his  paternal  love,  kept  his  own  decay  out  of 
sight  by  the  contemplation  of  so  brilliant  an  existence. 

At  the  age  of  sixty,  Bartolommeo  had  fallen  in  love 
with  an  angel  of  peace  and  beauty.  Don  Juan  was  the 
sole  fruit  of  this  tardy  and  short-lived  affection.  For 
the  last  fifteen  years  the  old  man  had  mourned  his 
beloved  Juana.  His  numerous  servants  and  Don  Juan 
attributed  to  this  sorrow  the  singular  habits  the  old 
man  had  since  contracted.  Retreating  to  the  most  in- 
convenient  wing  of  his  palace,  Bartolommeo  seldom 
went  out,  and  Don  Juan  himself  was  not  admitted  to 
his   father's  apartment  unless  he  obtained  permission. 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  275 

When  this  voluntary  anchorite  went  about  the  palace 
or  the  streets  of  Ferrara  he  seemed  to  be  looking  for 
something  that  he  wanted ;  he  walked  with  a  dreamy, 
undecided,  pre-occupied  air,  like  a  man  at  war  with 
some  idea  or  memory.  While  the  son  gave  sumptuous 
feasts,  and  made  the  palace  resound  with  the  echoes  of 
his  amusements,  while  horses  pawed  in  the  courtyard, 
and  pages  quarrelled  over  dice  on  the  steps,  Barto- 
lommeo  in  his  comfortless  rooms  ate  seven  ounces  of 
bread  a  day,  and  drank  water.  If  he  sometimes 
ordered  a  chicken  it  was  only  that  he  might  give  the 
bones  to  a  black  spaniel,  his  faithful  companion.  He 
never  complained  of  the  racket  in  the  house.  When, 
during  his  illness,  the  blowing  of  horns  and  the  bark- 
ing of  dogs  kept  him  from  sleeping,  he  merely  said, 
"Ah!  there's  Don  Juan  returning." 

Never  on  this  earth  was  there  a  more  indulgent 
and  accommodating  father  ;  consequently,  the  young 
Belvedere,  accustomed  to  treat  him  without  ceremony, 
had  all  the  defects  of  a  spoiled  child.  He  lived  with 
Bartolommeo  precisely  as  a  capricious  courtesan  lives 
with  an  old  lover,  excusing  his  impertinence  with  a 
smile,  selling  his  good-humor,  and  allowing  himself  to 
be  loved.  Recalling,  in  a  flash  of  thought,  the  memory 
of  past  years,  Don  Juan  recognized  that  it  would  be 
difficult  indeed  to  find  his  father's  kindness  in  fault. 
In  the  depths  of  his  heart  he  felt  some  stirrings  of 
remorse ;  as  he  walked  along  the  gallery  he  came  near 
forgiving  his  father  for  having  lived  so  long.  He  re- 
turned to  a  sense  of  filial  piety,  as  a  robber  becomes 
an  honest  man  under  the  expectation  of  enjoying  a 
million,  successfully  stolen. 


276  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

Presently  the  young  man  entered  the  cold  and  lofty 
rooms  of  his  father's  apartment.  Passing  through  the 
damp  atmosphere,  breathing  the  heavy  air  and  the 
rancid  odor  of  old  tapestries  and  musty  closets  full 
of  dust,  he  reached  the  room  of  the  old  man  and 
stood  before  his  nauseous  bed  beside  the  half  extin- 
guished fire.  A  lamp  placed  on  a  gothic  table  cast,  at 
irregular  intervals,  streaks  of  light  more  or  less  strong 
upon  the  bed,  showing  the  face  of  the  old  man  in 
various  differing  aspects.  A  cold  wind  whistling 
through  the  ill-closed  windows  and  the  snow  blown 
against  the  panes  made  a  low  dull  noise. 

This  scene  was  so  violent  a  contrast  to  that  Don 
Juan  had  just  quitted  that  he  could  not  help  shudder- 
ing. Then  he  turned  cold  when,  as  he  neared  the  bed, 
a  stronger  flicker  of  light,  blown  by  a  puff  of  wind, 
illumined  his  father's  head.  The  features  were  dis- 
torted ;  the  skin,  clinging  tightly  to  the  bones,  had  a 
greenish  tinge  which  the  whiteness  of  the  pillow  on 
which  the  head  of  the  old  man  lav  seemed  to  make  more 
horrible.  The  half-opened  mouth,  drawn  with  pain 
and  denuded  of  teeth,  gave  vent  to  sighs,  the  lugubri- 
ous energy  of  which  combined  with  the  howling  of  the 
tempest. 

In  spite  of  these  signs  of  dissolution,  incredible  power 
shone  from  that  head.  A  superior  spirit  was  combat- 
ing Death.  The  eyes,  hollow  with  illness,  had  a 
singular  fixity.  It  seemed  as  if  Bartolommeo  sought 
to  kill,  with  his  dying  glance,  an  enemy  seated  at  the 
foot  of  his  bed.  That  glance,  fixed  and  cold,  was  all 
the  more  awful  because  the  head  remained  immovable 
like  those  skulls  that  we  see  on  a  doctor's  table.      The 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  277 

body,  plainly  and  wholly  defined  under  the  sheets  of 
the  bed,  showed  that  the  limbs  of  the  old  man  had  the 
same  rigidity.  All  of  him  was  dead,  except  the  eyes. 
Even  the  sounds  which  came  from  his  mouth  had  a 
certain  mechanical  tone  in  them. 

Don  Juan  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  shame  in 
standing  beside  the  bed  of  his  dying  father  with  the 
flowers  of  a  courtesan  on  his  breast,  and  the  odors 
of  wine  and  feasting  clinging  to  him. 

"  You  were  amusing  yourself?"  said  the  old  man, 
beholding  his  son. 

At  that  instant,  the  pure,  clear  notes  of  an  opera- 
singer,  delighting  the  guests  and  sustained  by  the 
chords  of  a  lute  with  which  she  accompanied  herself, 
rose  above  the  howl  of  the  tempest,  and  echoed  through 
the  spaces  of  the  chamber  of  death.  Don  Juan  longed 
to  stifle  that  cruel  answer  to  his  father's  question. 

Bartolommeo  said,  "  I  am  not  displeased  with  you, 
my  son." 

That  gentle  speech  was  painful  to  Don  Juan,  who 
could  not  forgive  his  father  for  such  cutting  kindness. 

"  What  remorse  for  me,  father!"  he  said  hypo- 
critically. 

"  Poor  Juaniuo,"  continued  the  dying  man,  in  a 
failing  voice,  "I  have  always  been  so  kind  to  }7ou 
that  you  could  never  have  desired  my  death." 

"  Oh! '  cried  Don  Juan,  "  would  it  were  possible  to 
bring  you  back  to  life  by  the  sacrifice  of  half  my  own ! 
Those  things  can  always  be  said,"  thought  the  spend- 
thrift;  "it  is  just  as  if  I  offered  the  world  to  my 
mistress." 

The  thought  had  no  sooner  crossed   his  mind   than 


278  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

the  old  spaniel  barked.  That  intelligent  voice  made 
Don  Juan  tremble ;  he  believed  that  the  clog  under- 
stood him. 

"  I  knew,  my  son,  that  I  could  count  on  you,"  said 
the  dying  man.  "  I  shall  live.  Your  wish  will  be 
granted.  I  shall  live  ;  but  without  depriving  you  of 
the  days  that  belong  to  you." 

t;  He  is  delirious,"  thought  Don  Juan,  adding,  aloud, 
"  Yes,  my  precious  father,  you  will  live  indeed,  as  long 
as  I  live,  for  your  image  will  be  ever  in  my  heart." 

"  That  is  not  the  life  I  mean,"  said  the  old  noble, 
gathering  all  his  strength  to  rise  in  his  bed ;  for  a  sud- 
den suspicion,  such  as  are  born  only  under  the  pillows 
of  the  dying,  came  to  him.  "  Listen,  my  son,"  he  con- 
tinued, his  voice  enfeebled  by  this  last  effort :  "  I  have 
no  more  desire  to  die  than  you  have  to  give  up  mis- 
tresses, wine,  horses,  falcons,  dogs,  or  gold  —  ' 

"  I  believe  that,"  thought  the  son,  kneeling  down 
beside  the  bed,  and  kissing  one  of  the  cadaverous 
hands  of  the  old  man.  "  But,"  he  said  aloud,  "  father, 
dear  father,  we  must  both  submit  to  the  will  of  God." 

"  God  is  myself,"  replied  the  old  man,  mumbling. 

"  Do  not  blaspheme  !  "  cried  the  young  man,  seeing 
the  threatening  look  which  was  settling  on  his  father's 
features.  "Keep  yourself  from  that!  you  have  re- 
ceived extreme  unction,  and  never  should  I  console 
myself  if  you  were  now  to  die  in  a  state  of  sin." 

"  Will  you  listen  to  me?  "  cried  the  dying  man,  his 
mouth  snapping. 

Don  Juan  said  no  more.  A  horrible  silence  reigned. 
Through  the  dull  hissing  of  the  snow  against  the  panes 
came  the  tones  of  the  lute  and  the  charming  voice, 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  279 

faint  as  the  dawn  of  a  coming  day.     The  dying  father 
smiled. 

"I  thank  you  for  having  invited  that  singer,"  he 
said,  "to  make  music  for  me.  A  fete!  young  and 
beautiful  women,  fair,  with  black  eyes!  All  the  plea- 
sures of  life !  Keep  them  here ;  make  them  stay ;  I 
am  about  to  be  born  again." 

"  The  delirium  is  at  its  height,"  thought  Don  Juan. 

"I  have  discovered  a  means  of  resuscitation.  It  is 
at  hand.  Look  in  the  drawer  of  that  table ;  you  can 
open  it  by  touching  a  spring  in  the  claw  of  the  griffin." 

"  I  have  found  it,  father." 

"  Well  then,  take  out  a  little  vial  of  rock-crystal." 

"Here  it  is." 

"  I  have  spent  twenty  years  in  —  " 

At  that  moment  the  old  man  felt  his  end  approach- 
ing ;  he  gathered  up  all  his  energy  to  say :  "  As  soon 
as  I  have  drawn  my  last  breath,  rub  me  all  over  with 
that  water,  and  I  shall  live  again." 

"  There  is  very  little  of  it,"  said  the  young  man. 

Bartolommeo  could  no  longer  speak,  but  he  still  had 
power  to  hear  and  see  ;  at  his  son's  words,  he  turned 
his  head  to  Don  Juan  with  an  awful  and  convulsive 
motion  ;  his  neck  remained  stretched,  like  that  of  a 
marble  figure  which  a  sculptor  has  made  to  look  to  one 
side ;  his  staring  eyes  took  on  a  hideous  immobility. 
He  was  dead,  —  dead  in  losing  his  last  illusion.  Seek- 
ing an  asylum  in  the  heart  of  his  son,  he  found  a  grave 
deeper  than  those  in  which  men  bury  their  dead.  His 
hair,  quivering  with  his  dying  horror,  and  the  convulsed 
eyes  still  spoke.  A  father  was  rising  with  rage  from 
his  sepulchre,  and  asking  vengeance  of  God ! 


280  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

"  There !  the  old  man  is  ended,"  said  Don  Juan. 

Hastening  to  hold  the  little  vial  to  the  light,  as  the 
drinker  consults  his  bottle  at  the  end  of  a  meal,  he 
had  not  observed  the  whitening  of  his  father's  eye. 
The  dog,  with  open  mouth,  gazed  alternately  at  his 
dead  master  and  at  the  mysterious  elixir,  just  as  Don 
Juan  himself  now  looked  from  the  vial  to  his  father. 
The  lamp  still  cast  its  flickering  flame.  The  silence 
was  profound ;  the  lute  was  silent.  Don  Juan  quiv- 
ered, for  he  thought  his  father  moved.  Intimidated  by 
the  rigid  glare  of  those  accusing  eyes,  he  closed  them, 
as  he  might  have  closed  a  shutter  that  was  flapping  in 
the  wind.     He  stood  erect,  motionless,  lost  in  thought. 

Suddenly,  a  rasping  voice,  like  that  of  a  rusty  spring, 
broke  the  silence.  Don  Juan,  startled,  almost  let  fall 
the  vial.  A  cold  sweat,  colder  than  the  steel  of  a  dag- 
ger, started  from  his  pores.  A  cock,  of  painted  wood, 
rose  to  the  top  of  a  timepiece,  and  crowed  three  times. 
It  was  one  of  these  ingenious  mechanisms  by  which 
the  learned  men  of  that  day  waked  themselves  at  the 
hour  they  wished  to  begin  their  studies.  The  dawn 
was  reddening  the  windows.  Don  Juan  had  passed  ten 
hours  in  reflection.  The  old  clock  was  more  faithful 
in  rousing  him  than  he  was  in  fulfilling  his  duty  to 
Bartolommeo.  The  mechanism  of  the  clock  was  made 
up  of  wood,  pulleys,  cords,  and  wheels  ;  whereas  his 
mechanism  was  that  peculiar  to  man,  and  called  a 
heart. 

In  order  not  to  run  the  risk  of  losing  that  mysterious 
liquid,  the  sceptical  Don  Juan  replaced  it  in  the  drawer 
of  the  little  gothic  table.  At  this  solemn  moment  he 
heard    a  low  tumult  in  the   gallery ;  confused  voices, 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  281 

smothered  laughter,  elastic  steps,  the  rustling  of  silken 
stuffs,  in  short,  the  noise  of  a  joyous  group  of  persons, 
endeavoring,  nevertheless,  to  restrain  themselves.  The 
door  opened,  and  the  prince,  Don  Juan's  friends,  the 
seven  courtesans,  and  the  prima  donnas,  in  all  the  fan- 
tastic disorder  of  revellers  surprised  by  the  dawn  when 
the  sun  begins  to  struggle  with  the  paling  light  of 
tapers,  entered  the  room.  They  came  to  offer  to  the 
young  heir  the  conventional  consolations. 

"  Oh  !  oh!  that  poor  Don  Juan  seems  to  be  taking 
this  death  quite  seriously,"  said  the  prince  in  the  ear 
of  the  Brambilla. 

"  But  his  father  was  a  very  kind  man,"  she  replied. 

The  nocturnal  meditations  of  Don  Juan  had  left  so 
striking  an  expression  upon  his  features  that  silence 
was  imposed  upon  the  group.  The  men  stood  motion- 
less. The  women,  their  lips  parched  with  wine,  their 
cheeks  marbled  with  kisses  on  their  rouge,  fell  on  their 
knees  and  began  to  pray.  Don  Juan  could  not  keep 
himself  from  shuddering  as  he  saw  these  splendors  of 
youth,  beauty,  power,  joy,  laughter,  song,  all  life  per- 
sonified, prostrate  before  Death.  But,  in  that  adorable 
Italy,  debauchery  and  religion  couple  so  strangely,  that 
religion  is  debauchery,  and  debauchery  religion.  The 
prince  pressed  the  young  heir's  hand  affectionately; 
then,  all  the  other  faces  having  offered,  simultaneously, 
the  same  grimace  of  mingled  mourning  and  indifference, 
the  strange  phantasmagoria  withdrew,  leaving  the  old 
room  empty.     An  image  indeed  of  life  ! 

As  they  went  down  the  stairs,  the  prince  remarked 
to  la  Rivabarella : 

"  Who  would  have  thought  Don  Juan  a  mere  boaster 
of  impiety  ?  —  why,  he  loved  his  father !  " 


282  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

4 'Did  you  notice  that  black  dog?"  asked  the  Bram- 
billa. 

"He  is  now  immensely  rich,"  remarked  Bianca 
Cavatolino,   smiling. 

"  What  do  I  care!  "  cried  the  proud  Veronese,  she 
who  had  crushed  the  bonbonniere. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?  "  cried  the  prince.  "  With 
all  his  money  he  can  be  as  much  a  prince  as  I." 

Don  Juan,  at  first,  swaying  in  the  balance  with  a 
thousand  thoughts,  was  undecided  as  to  his  course. 
Towards  evening,  after  taking  counsel  of  the  treasure 
amassed  by  his  father,  he  returned  to  the  chamber  of 
death,  his  soul  full  of  an  awful  egotism.  He  found  all 
the  servants  of  the  establishment  in  the  room,  engaged 
in  arranging;  the  ornaments  of  the  state  bed,  on  which 
the  "late  monseigneur"  was  to  lie  the  next  day  in  a 
splendid  mortuary  chamber,  —  an  interesting  spectacle, 
which  all  Ferrara  would  flock  to  witness.  Don  Juan 
made  a  sign,  and  the  servants  stopped  their  work,  con- 
fused and  trembling. 

"Leave  me  here,  alone,"  he  said  in  a  strained  voice. 
"  None  of  you  can  return  until  I  leave  the  room." 

When  the  steps  of  the  old  servitor,  who  was  the  last 
to  go,  sounded  but  faintly  on  the  tiled  flooring,  Don 
Juan  hurriedly  locked  the  door ;  then,  sure  of  being 
alone,  he  exclaimed  :  — 

"I  will  try!" 

The  body  of  Bartolommeo  was  lying  on  a  long  table. 
To  hide  from  all  eyes  the  hideous  spectacle  of  a  corpse 
that  resembled  in  its  extreme  emaciation  and  decrepi- 
tude a  skeleton,  the  embalmers  had  laid  the  body  in  a 
sheet  which  enveloped  the  whole  of  it  except  the  head. 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  283 

This  mummy  lay  in  the  centre  of  the  room  ;  the  sheet, 
naturally  supple,  vaguely  defining  its  sharp,  stiff  out- 
lines. The  face  was  already  marked  with  violet  spots, 
showing  the  necessity  of  finishing  the  embalmment. 

In  spite  of  the  scepticism  with  which  he  was  pro- 
vided, Don  Juan  trembled  as  he  took  the  cork  from  the 
magic  vial  of  rock-crystal.  He  was  even  compelled  to 
pause  a  moment  when  he  came  near  the  head,  for  he 
found  himself  shuddering.  But  this  young  man  had 
been  early  and  knowingly  corrupted  by  the  morals  of  a 
dissolute  court.  A  suggestion,  worthy  of  the  Duke  of 
Urbino,  came  into  his  mind,  and  gave  him  a  courage 
which  was  spurred  moreover  by  eager  curiosity ;  it 
seemed  as  if  some  demon  had  whispered  the  words 
which  sounded  in  his  heart :    Wet  one  eye. 

He  took  a  linen  cloth,  moistened  it  sparingly  in  the 
precious  liquid,  and  passed  it  lightly  over  the  right  eye- 
lid of  the  corpse.     The  eye  opened. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  said  Don  Juan,  "it  is  true  !  "  and  he 
clasped  the  vial  in  his  hand,  as  we  clasp  in  our  dreams 
a  branch  which  holds  us  suspended  over  a  precipice. 

He  saw  an  eye  full  of  life,  the  eye  of  a  child  in  a 
dead  man's  head;  the  light  flickered  on  its  youthful 
fluidity  ;  protected  by  beautiful  black  lashes,  it  sparkled 
like  those  solitary  gleams  which  the  traveller  sees  in 
desert  regions  of  a  winter's  night.  That  flaming  eye 
seemed  desirous  of  springing  upon  Don  Juan ;  it 
thought,  accused,  condemned,  threatened,  judged, 
spoke ;  it  cried,  it  bit.  All  human  passions  stirred 
within  it,  —  the  tenderest  supplications,  the  anger  of 
a  king,  the  love  of  a  young  girl  asking  mercy  of  an 
executioner,  the  solemn  look  that  a  man  casts  on  men 


284  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

as  he  ascends  the  last  step  of  a  scaffold.  So  much  of 
life  shone  in  that  mere  fragment  of  life  that  Don  Juan 
recoiled  in  terror.  He  walked  about  the  room,  not 
daring  to  look  again  at  the  eye,  though  he  saw  it  on 
the  floor,  on  the  tapestries.  The  room  was  sown  with 
spots  of  fire,  life,  intelligence.  On  all  sides  shone  that 
eye,  which  barked,  as  it  were,  after  him. 

u  He  might  have  lived  a  hundred  years  !  "  cried  the 
young  man,  involuntarily,  at  the  moment  when,  brought 
back  before  his  father  by  some  devilish  influence,  he 
again  contemplated  that  luminous  vital  spark. 

Suddenly  the  intelligent  eyelid  closed,  and  opened 
again  instantly.  Had  a  voice  replied  to  him  "  Yes  !  " 
Don  Juan  would  not  have  been  more  terrified. 

"  What  shall  I  do?"  he  thought. 

He  had  the  courage  to  try  to  close  the  eyelid.  His 
efforts  were  vain. 

u  Shall  I  crush  it?  Would  that  be  parricide?"  he 
asked  himself . 

"  Yes,"  said  the  eye  winking  with  awful  irony. 

"  Ha  !  ha !  "  exclaimed  Don  Juan,  "  there  's  sorcery 
here." 

He  went  nearer  to  the  eye  to  crush  it.  A  large  tear 
rolled  down  the  cheek  of  the  corpse  and  fell  on  the 
young  man's  hand. 

"  It  is  burning !  "  he  cried,  sitting  down. 

The  struggle  fatigued  him,  as  though  he  had  been 
wrestling,  like  Jacob,  with  an  angel. 

At  last  he  rose,  saying  to  himself,  "  Provided  there 
is  no  blood  !  " 

Then,  collecting  all  the  courage  that  is  needed  to  be 
dastardly,   he  crushed  the   eye,   pushing  it  in  with  a 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  285 

cloth,  but  not  looking  at  it.  An  unexpected,  but  ter- 
rible moan  was  heard ;  the  poor  spaniel  expired, 
howling. 

"  Could  he  have  known  the  secret?"  thought  Don 
Juan,  looking  at  the  faithful  animal. 

Don  Juan  Belvedere,  was  considered  a  pious  son. 
He  erected  a  marble  monument  over  the  grave  of  his 
father,  and  gave  the  execution  of  the  figures  to  the 
most  distinguished  sculptors  of  Italy.  He  was  not 
perfectly  tranquil  in  mind  until  the  day  when  the  statue 
of  his  father,  kneeling  before  Religion,  was  placed  in 
all  its  enormous  weight  upon  that  grave,  in  the  depths 
of  which  he  buried  the  sole  remorse  that  ever  entered 
his  heart  in  moments  of  physical  lassitude. 

In  estimating  and  using  the  vast  wealth  amassed  by 
the  old  orientalist,  Don  Juan  became  a  miser ;  had  he 
not  two  lives  to  live  and  to  provide  for?  His  deeply 
scrutinizing  gaze  penetrated  the  principle  of  social  life 
and  grasped  the  world  the  better'  because  he  saw  it 
across  a  tomb.  He  analyzed  both  men  and  things,  in 
order  to  be  done,  once  for  all,  with  the  Past,  repre- 
sented by  History ;  with  the  Present,  embodied  by 
Law ;  with  the  Future,  unveiled  by  Religions.  He 
took  both  soul  and  matter,  flung  them  into  a  retort, 
found  nothing,  and  became  henceforth  Don  Juan! 

Master  of  the  illusions  of  life,  he  sprang,  young  and 
splendid,  into  life,  despising  society  but  grasping  it. 
His  happiness  could  never  be  that  burgher  contentment 
which  feeds  on  periodical  bouilli,  enjoys  a  warming- 
pan  in  winter,  a  lamp  at  night,  a  new  pair  of  slippers 
tri-monthly.  No,  he  seized  existence  as  a  monkey 
catches  a  nut,  —  not  playing  with  it  long,  but  cunningly 


286  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

peeling"  off  the  outside  husk  of  the  fruit  to  get  at  the 
luscious  meat  within.  Poesy  and  the  sublime  trans- 
ports of  human  passion  never  touched  him.  He  did 
not  commit  the  mistake  of  those  strong  men  who, 
imagining  that  little  souls  believe  in  great  ones,  attempt 
to  exchange  their  knowledge  of  the  future  against  the 
small  change  of  ideas  that  are  limited  to  one  life.  He 
could  walk,  like  them,  with  his  feet  on  the  earth  and 
his  head  in  the  skies  ;  but  he  preferred  to  sit  down, 
and  wither  with  kisses  the  tender,  fresh,  and  perfumed 
lips  of  women  ;  for,  like  Death,  wherever  he  passed, 
he  took  all  without  decency,  —  seeking  the  love  of  pos- 
session, the  oriental  love  with  its  long  and  facile 
pleasures.  Loving  the  sex  only  in  the  woman,  sar- 
casm became  the  natural  trend  of  his  mind.  When 
his  mistresses  used  their  passion  to  rise  to  the  skies 
and  lose  themselves  in  the  bosom  of  intoxicating 
ecstasy,  Don  Juan  followed  them  grave,  expansive, 
sincere  as  a  German  student  can  make  himself;  but 
he  said  J,  while  his  mistress,  lost  in  her  emotions,  was 
saying  we.  He  knew  well  how  to  let  a  woman  win 
him.  He  was  always  strong  enough  to  lead  her  to 
believe  that  he  trembled  like  a  schoolboy  making  love 
to  his  first  partner.  Yet  he  knew  how  to  roar  at  the 
right  time,  and  to  draw  his  powerful  sword  on  all 
Commanders.  There  was  always  a  sneer  in  his  sim- 
plicity and  a  grin  in  his  tears ;  for  he  could  weep  as 
cleverly  as  a  woman  when  she  says  to  her  husband, 
"  Give  me  a  carriage  or  I  shall  die  of  consumption." 

To  merchants,  the  world  is  a  cargo,  or  a  pile  of  notes 
in  circulation  ;  to  most  young  men  it  is  a  woman  ;  to 
some   women   it  is  a  man  ;  to   certain    minds  it  is   a 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  287 

salon,  a  coterie,  a  quarter,  a  town ;  to  Don  Juan,  the 
universe  was  Himself.  A  model  of  grace  and  noble 
bearing,  seductive  in  mind  and  wit,  he  tied  his  bark  to 
every  shore  ;  but,  while  letting  himself  be  led,  he  never 
went  beyond  the  point  he  chose  to  go.  The  longer  he 
lived  the  more  he  doubted.  Examining  men,  he  often 
discerned  that  courage  wras  temerity ;  prudence,  cow- 
ardice ;  generosity,  shrewdness  ;  justice  a  crime  ;  deli- 
cacy, foolishness  ;  honesty,  constitutional ;  and,  by  a 
singular  fatality,  he  perceived  that  the  men  who  were 
truly  honest,  delicate,  just,  generous,  prudent,  and 
brave  obtained  little  or  no  consideration  among  their 
fellows. 

"  What  a  cold  joke  the  world  is  !  "  he  said  to  him- 
self.    "  It  certainly  can't  come  from  a  God." 

Then,  renouncing  the  idea  of  a  better  world,  he 
lifted  his  hat  to  no  sacred  name,  and  considered  the 
stone  saints  standing  in  the  church  as  works  of  Art. 
Understanding  the  mechanism  of  human  society,  he 
offended  no  prejudices,  but  he  slipped  round  social  laws 
with  the  grace  and  wit  so  well  described  in  his  inter- 
view with  Monsieur  Dimanche.  He  was,  in  short,  the 
type  of  Moliere's  Don  Juan,  Goethe's  Faust,  Byron's 
Manfred,  and  Mathurin's  Melmoth,  —  great  images 
drawn  by  the  greatest  geniuses  of  Europe,  to  which 
the  harmonies  of  Mozart  and,  possibly,  the  lyre  of 
Rubini  are  not  lacking,  —  terrible  images,  which  the 
principle  of  evil,  inherent  in  man,  will  make  eternal ; 
a  few  copies  appearing  from  age  to  age,  whether  the 
type  returns  to  parley  with  mankind  incarnate  in 
Mirabeau ;  whether  it  is  content  to  act  in  silence  like 
Bonaparte,  or  to  compress  the  universe  into  a  sarcasm 


288  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

like  the  mighty  Rabelais,  or  whether,  again,  it  jeers  at 
men  instead  of  insulting  things,  like  Richelieu,  or  — 
better  still,  perhaps,  —  whether  it  scoffs  both  at  men 
and  things,  like  the  most  celebrated  of  our  ambassa- 
dors. But  the  profound  genius  of  Don  Juan  Belvedere 
was  the  type,  in  advance,  of  all  those  beings.  He 
jeered  at  all  things.  His  life  was  a  scoffing  scorn  of 
men  and  things,  institutions  and  ideas.  As  for  etern- 
ity, he  had  talked  familiarly  on  one  occasion  with  Pope 
Julius  the  Second ;  at  the  close  of  which  conversation 
he  said,  laughing,  — 

u  If  one  must  absolutely  choose,  I  would  rather 
believe  in  God  than  in  the  Devil :  power  united  to 
goodness  has  certainly  more  resources  than  the  Genius 
of  Evil  can  ever  have." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  pope,  "  but  God  requires  repentance 
in  this  world." 

"  You  are  always  thinking  of  your  Indulgences," 
replied  Belvedere.  "  As  for  me,  I  have  another  ex- 
istence in  reserve  in  which  I  can  repent  for  the  sins 
of  my  present  life." 

"  Ah !  if  that  is  how  you  consider  old  age,"  cried 
the  Pope,   "  you  risk  being  canonized." 

"  After  your  elevation  to  the  papacy  nothing  is  sur- 
prising," returned  Don  Juan. 

Whereupon  they  went  to  watch  the  workmen  em- 
ployed in  building  the  vast  basilica  dedicated  to  Saint 
Peter. 

"  Saint  Peter  is  the  man  of  genius,  who  constituted 
for  us  our  double  power,"  remarked  the  pope  to 
Don  Juan.  "  He  deserves  this  monument.  But  some- 
times, in  the  night,  I  think  how  a  deluge  may  wipe  it 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  289 

out,  and  the  whole  thing  will  have  to  be  done  over 


again." 


Don  Juan  and  the  pope  began  to  laugh,  —  they  un- 
derstood each  other.  A  fool  would  have  gone  the 
next  day,  to  jest  with  Julius  the  Second  among  the 
Eaffaelle  frescos,  or  in  the  delightful  Villa  Madama ; 
but  Belvedere  went  to  see  him  officiate  pontifically,  in 
order  to  convince  himself  of  the  pope's  doubts.  In 
a  debauch,  della  Rovere  might  have  retracted  and 
preached  the  Apocalypse. 

However,  this  legend  is  not  undertaken  to  furnish 
facts  for  those  who  may  want  to  write  the  memoirs  of 
Don  Juan.  It  is  intended  to  prove  to  honest  men 
that  he  did  not  die  in  his  duel  with  a  Stone,  as  some 
lithographers  have  endeavored  to  make  us  believe. 

When  Don  Juan  was  sixty  years  of  age,  he  went  to 
live  in  Spain.  There,  in  his  old  age,  he  married  a 
young  and  lovely  Andalusian.  But,  as  a  matter  of 
calculation,  he  was  neither  a  good  father  nor  a  good 
husband.  He  had  observed  that  men  were  never  so 
tenderly  loved  as  by  the  women  they  did  not  care  for. 
Donna  Elvira,  piously  brought  up  by  an  old  aunt  in 
the  depths  of  Andalusia,  in  a  castle  not  far  from  San- 
Lucar,  was  all  grace  and  devotion.  Don  Juan,  feeling 
certain  that  this  young  girl  as  a  wife  would  struggle 
long  against  a  passion  before  yielding  to  it,  calculated 
that  she  would  probably  remain  virtuous  until  his 
death.  This  was  a  pleasant  sort  of  serious  jest,  a 
game  of  chess,  as  it  were,  which  he  thought  would 
amuse  him  for  the  rest  of  his  present  life. 

Warned  by  the  many  mistakes  committed  by  his 
father,    Don    Juan    resolved    to    make    all,    even    the 

19 


290  The  Elixir   of  Life. 

slightest  actions  of  his  old  age  conduce  to  the  success 
of  the  drama  which  was  to  be  accomplished  on  his 
deathbed.  The  greater  part  of  his  enormous  wealth 
was  buried  in  the  vaults  of  his  palace  at  Ferrara, 
where  he  seldom  went.  The  rest  of  his  fortune  he 
turned  into  an  annuity  in  order  to  make  the  duration 
of  his  life  the  interest  of  his  wife  and  son,  —  a  species 
of  cheatery  which  his  father  would  have  done  well  to 
practise  upon  him.  But  this  Machiavellian  speculation 
was  not  at  all  necessary.  His  son,  Filippo  Belvedere, 
was  as  conscientiously  religious  as  his  father  was 
impious,  —  in  virtue,  perhaps,  of  the  proverb,  "To  a 
miserly  father,  a  prodigal  son." 

The  Abbe  de  San-Lucar  had  been  chosen  by  Don 
Juan  to  direct  the  consciences  of  the  duchess  and  his 
sou.  This  ecclesiastic  was  a  saintly  man,  of  a  fine 
figure  admirably  proportioned,  with  handsome  black 
eyes,  a  head  like  Tiberius,  worn  with  fasting,  white 
with  penance,  and  daily  tempted,  like  all  recluses. 
Don  Juan  may  have  hoped,  perhaps,  to  kill  a  monk 
before  he  came  to  the  end  of  his  first  lease  of  life. 
But,  whether  it  was  that  the  abbe  was  as  strong  in 
his  way  as  Don  Juan  in  his,  or  that  Donna  Elvira  had 
prudence  or  more  virtue  than  Spain  has  accorded  to 
women,  Don  Juan  was  constrained  to  pass  the  re- 
mainder of  his  days  like  an  old  country  rector,  with- 
out scandal  of  any  kind.  Sometimes  he  could  get  a 
little  pleasure  in  blaming  his  wife  and  son  for  neglect- 
ing the  duties  of  religion  ;  for  he  imperatively  required 
that  they  should  fulfil  the  strictest  obligations  imposed 
by  the  court  of  Rome.  In  fact,  he  was  never  so  happy 
now  as  when  he  listened  to  the  gallant  Abbe  de  San- 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  291 

Lucar,  Donna  Elvira,  and  Filippo  discussing  a  case  of 
conscience. 

But,  in  spite  of  the  incessant  care  which  Signor  Don 
Juan  Belvedere  bestowed  upon  his  person,  the  clays  of 
his  decrepitude  arrived;  with  that  age  of  pain,  came 
cries  of  impotence,  cries  the  more  distressing  because 
the  recollections  of  his  fiery  youth  and  his  voluptuous 
maturity  were  rich  and  strong.  This  man,  whose 
highest  delight  in  sarcasm  was  to  force  others  to 
believe  in  laws  and  principles  at  which  he  scotfed,  now 
slept  every  night  on  a  "  perhaps."  This  model  of 
good  taste,  this  duke,  vigorous  in  an  orgy,  superb 
at  court,  gracious  before  women  whose  hearts  he 
twisted  as  a  peasant  twists  an  osier  twig,  this  man  of 
genius  was  afflicted  with  an  obstinate  catarrh,  an 
importunate  sciatica  and  a  brutal  gout.  His  teeth 
were  leaving  him,  one  by  one,  as  women  leave  at 
night  a  deserted  ball-room.  His  bold  hand  trembled  ; 
his  lithe  legs  tottered ;  and  at  last,  one  evening,  his 
throat  was  clutched  by  the  hooked  and  icy  fingers  of 
apoplexy. 

After  that  fatal  day  he  became  morose  and  hard. 
He  quarrelled  with  the  devotion  of  his  wife  and  son, 
declaring  that  their  delicate  and  touching  care  was  only 
given  so  tenderly  because  he  had  put  his  fortune  into 
an  annuity.  Elvira  and  Filippo  shed  bitter  tears  and 
redoubled  their  attentions  to  the  malignant  old  man, 
whose  cracked  voice  became  affectionate  as  he  said : 

"  My  friends,  my  dear  wife,  you  forgive  me,  do  you 
not?  I  torment  you,  I  know.  Alas!  oh  God!  why 
dost  thou  use  me  to  be  a  curse  to  these  dear  beings? 
I,  who  ought  to  be  their  joy,  I  am  their  scourge." 


292  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

In  this  way  he  chained  them  to  his  pillow ;  making 
them  forget  whole  months  of  impatience  and  cruelty  in 
an  hour,  when  he  showered  them  with  the  treasures  of 
his  lying  tenderness,  —  a  paternal  system  which  was 
infinitely  more  successful  than  that  his  father  had  prac- 
tised towards  him. 

At  last  he  reached  a  degree  of  illness  when  in  order 
to  get  him  into  bed  he  had  to  be  manoeuvred  like  a 
felucca  entering  a  dangerous  channel.  The  day  of  his 
death  arrived.  This  brilliant  and  sceptical  personage, 
whose  intelligence  alone  survived  the  most  dreadful  of 
all  destructions,  found  himself  between  a  doctor  and  a 
confessor  —  his  two  antipathies ;  but  he  was  jovial 
with  both  of  them.  Was  there  not  for  him  a  dazzling 
existence  behind  the  veil  of  the  future?  Upon  that 
veil,  of  lead  for  others,  diaphanous  for  him,  the  light- 
some, ravishing  delights  of  youth  were  casting  playful 
shadows. 

On  a  fine  summer's  evening  Don  Juan  felt  that 
death  had  come.  The  sky  of  Spain  was  exquisitely 
pure,  the  orange-trees  perfumed  the  air,  the  stars  dis- 
tilled their  bright,  cool  light,  all  nature  gave  him 
pledges  of  his  certain  resurrection  ;  a  son,  pious  and 
obedient,  was  watching  him  with  love  and  absolute 
respect.  Toward  eleven  o'clock  at  night  Don  Juan 
desired  to  be  left  alone  with  that  guileless  being. 

"  Filippo,"  he  said,  in  so  tender  and  affectionate  a 
voice  that  the  young  man  trembled  and  wept  with  joy. 
Never  had  that  inflexible  father  so  pronounced  his 
name:  Filippo!  —  "Listen  to  me,  my  son,"  said  the 
dying  mau.  "lam  a  great  sinner.  Therefore  have 
I  thought,  all  my  life,  about  my  death.     In  my  youth 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  293 

I  was  the  friend  of  the  great  pope,  Julias  the  Second. 
That  illustrious  pontiff  feared  that  the  excessive  excit- 
ability of  my  senses  might  lead  me  to  commit  some 
mortal  sin  between  the  moment  when  I  received  the 
holy  oils  and  that  of  my  actual  death.  He  therefore 
made  me  a  present  of  a  vial  containing  holy  water 
brought  from  the  sacred  places  of  the  desert.  I  have 
kept  the  secret  of  his  gift  of  a  treasure  of  the  Church ; 
but  I  am  authorized  to  reveal  in  articulo  mortis  this 
mystery  to  my  son.  You  will  find  that  vial  in  the 
drawer  of  the  gothic  table  which  never  leaves  my  bed- 
side. The  precious  liquid  may  serve  you  too,  my 
beloved  Filippo.  Swear  to  me,  on  your  eternal  salva- 
tion to  execute  my  orders  faithfully." 

Filippo  looked  at  his  father.  Don  Juan  knew  too 
well  the  expression  of  all  human  sentiments  not  to  die 
in  peace  on  the  faith  of  that  look,  as  his  father  had 
died  in  despair  on  the  faith  of  his. 

"  You  deserve  another  father,"  said  Don  Juan.  "  I 
must  confess  to  you,  my  dear  child,  that  at  the  moment 
when  the  worthy  Abbe  de  San-Lucar  administered  to 
me  the  viaticum,  I  was  thinking  of  the  incompatibility 
of  there  being  two  powers  in  the  world,  so  omnipotent 
as  those  of  God  and  the  Devil  —  " 

"Oh!  father!—" 

"And  I  said  to  myself,  '  When  Satan  makes  peace 
with  God,  he  ought,  unless  he  is  a  great  scoundrel,  to 
stipulate  for  the  pardon  of  his  adherents.'  That 
thought  pursues  me.  I  shall  therefore  go  to  hell,  my 
son,  unless  you  do  the  thing  that  I  shall  tell  you  to 
do." 

"Tell  it  to  me  quickly,   father." 


294  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

"  As  soon  as  my  eyes  are  closed  in  death,"  contin- 
ued Don  Juan,  "  a  few  minutes  hence  perhaps,  you 
must  take  my  body,  warm  as  it  is,  and  lay  it  on  that 
table  in  the  middle  of  this  room.  Then  you  will  put 
out  the  lamp  ;  the  light  of  the  stars  will  suffice  for 
what  you  have  to  do.  You  must  take  off  my  clothes, 
and  then  —  while  reciting  a  Pater  and  an  Ave,  and 
lifting  your  soul  to  God  —  you  must  moisten  with  that 
sacred  water,  first  my  eyes,  my  lips,  and  all  my  head 
and  then,  successively,  my  body  and  my  limbs.  But, 
my  dear  son,  the  power  of  God  is  great ;  you  must  not 
be  surprised  at  any  miracle  he  may  do  —  " 

Here  Don  Juan,  feeling  that  death  was  upon  him, 
added  in  a  terrible  voice,  "  Hold  the  vial  fast !  " 

Then  he  gently  expired  in  the  arms  of  his  son, 
whose  abundant  tears  flowed  upon  that  livid  and 
ironical  face. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  Don  Filippo  Belvedere 
placed  the  body  of  his  father  on  the  table.  After 
kissing  that  threatening  brow  and  its  gray  hair,  he 
extinguished  the  lamp.  A  soft  light,  produced  by  the 
moon,  which  cast  fantastic  gleams  upon  the  meadows, 
enabled  the  pious  youth  to  see,  though  indistinctly,  the 
body  of  his  father  as  something  white  in  the  midst  of 
shadows.  He  dipped  a  cloth  into  the  liquid,  and,  mur- 
muring a  prayer,  he  faithfully  anointed  that  sacred 
head  in  the  midst  of  the  deepest  silence.  He  heard 
indescribable  quiverings,  but  he  thought  they  were  the 
playing  of  the  breeze  in  the  tree-tops.  Next,  he 
moistened  the  right  arm,  and  having  done  so,  he  felt 
himself  clasped  around  the  neck  by  a  young  and  vig- 
orous arm,  the  arm  of  his  father! 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  295 

The  youth  gave  a  dreadful  cry,  and  let  fall  the  vial, 
which  broke,  and  the  liquid  was  lost. 

The  servants  of  the  chateau  rushed  in  with  lights. 
The  cries  had  alarmed  and  surprised  them,  as  if  the 
trumpet  of  the  last  judgment  were  shaking  the  universe. 
In  a  moment  the  room  was  full  of  people.  The  crowd 
trembled  when  they  saw  Filippo  insensible,  but  tightly 
held  in  the  arm  of  his  father  twined  round  his  neck, 
and  then,  amazing  sight!  all  the  people  saw  the  head 
of  Don  Juan,  as  young,  as  beautiful  as  that  of  Antin- 
ous ;  a  head  with  black  hair,  and  brilliant  eyes  and 
scarlet  mouth,  which  moved  in  an  awful  manner  strug- 
gling, ineffectually,  to  stir  the  corpse  to  which  it  was 
attached. 

An  old  servant  cried  out,  — 

"Miracle  !" 

And  all  the  Spaniards  present  repeated,  — 

"Miracle!  " 

Too  pious  to  admit  the  possibility  of  magic,  Donna 
Elvira  sent  at  once  for  the  Abbe  de  San-Lucar.  When 
the  prior  saw  the  miracle  with  his  own  eyes,  he  re- 
solved to  profit  by  it,  like  a  man  of  sense  and  an  abbe 
who  is  not  unwilling  to  increase  his  revenues.  Declar- 
ing promptly  that  the  Signor  Don  Juan  would  infallibly 
be  canonized  he  appointed  the  ceremony  of  the  apo- 
theosis to  take  place  in  his  convent,  which  in  future,  he 
said,  would  be  named  San-Juan  de  Lucar.  At  these 
words,  the  head  grinned  facetiously. 

The  Spanish  taste  for  such  solemnities  is  so  wTell 
known  that  it  cannot  be  difficult  to  imagine  the  piously 
fairy  scene  with  which  the  abbey  of  San-Lucar  cele- 
brated the  ascension  of  the  blessed  Don  Juan  Belvedere. 


296  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

Within  a  few  days  of  the  death  of  that  illustrious 
signor,  the  miracle  of  his  imperfect  resurrection  had 
been  so  thoroughly  related  from  village  to  village 
through  a  circuit  of  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  around  San-Lucar,  that  already  it  was  like  a 
comedy  to  see  the  curious  crowds  flocking  along  the 
roads ;  they  came  from  all  parts,  allured  by  the 
thought  of  the  Te  Deum  chanted  by  torchlight.  The 
ancient  mosque  of  the  convent  of  San-Lucar,  a  mar- 
vellous edifice  built  by  the  Moors,  the  arches  of  which 
for  three  centuries  had  heard  the  name  of  Christ  sub- 
stituted for  that  of  Allah,  could  not  contain  the  mass 
of  people  that  flocked  to  the  ceremony.  Pressed  to- 
gether like  ants,  the  hidalgos,  in  their  velvet  mantles 
and  armed  with  their  swords,  stood  up  around  the 
columns,  finding  no  place  to  bend  their  knees,  which 
bent  only  in  a  church.  Bewitching  peasant-women, 
whose  basques  defined  their  lovable  shapes,  gave  their 
arms  to  white-haired  old  men.  Young  men  with  fiery 
eyes,  supported  old  women  dressed  for  parade.  Then 
came  couples  quivering  with  pleasure,  girls  brought 
by  their  betrothed,  brides  of  the  day  before,  children 
holding  each  other  timidly  by  the  hand.  The  whole 
community  were  there,  rich  in  color,  brilliant  in  con- 
trasts, covered  with  flowers ;  making  a  soft  tumult  in 
the  silence  of  the  night. 

The  portals  of  the  church  were  opened  wide.  Some 
who  came  too  late  to  enter  stayed  outside,  seeing  from 
afar  through  the  three  great  doors,  a  scene  of  which 
the  fairy  decorations  of  our  modern  operas  can  give 
but  a  faint  idea.  Devout  persons  and  sinners,  all 
eager  to  win  the  good  graces  of  the  new  saint,  lighted 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  297 

thousands  of  tapers  in  his  honor  throughout  the  vast 
building,  selfish  flames  which,  nevertheless,  gave  magic 
aspects  to  the  edifice.  The  dark  aisles,  the  columns 
and  their  capitals,  the  deep  chapels  brilliant  with  gold 
and  silver,  the  galleries,  the  Saracenic  openwork,  the 
exquisite  tracery  of  the  delicate  sculpture,  all  wrere 
defined  in  that  abounding  light  like  the  capricious 
figures  formed  in  the  glow  of  a  brasier.  It  was  in- 
deed an  ocean  of  light,  reaching  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  church  to  the  gilded  choir,  within  wThich  rose 
the  high  altar,  its  glory  rivalling  that  of  the  rising 
sun. 

But  the  splendor  of  the  golden  lamps,  the  silver 
candelabra,  the  banners,  the  tassels,  the  saints  and 
the  ex-votos,  paled  before  the  glitter  of  the  shrine  in 
which  lay  the  body  of  Don  Juan.  The  body  itself 
sparkled  with  jewels,  flowers,  crystals,  diamonds,  and 
plumes  as  white  as  the  wings  of  seraphim  ;  for  the 
purpose  of  this  ceremony,  it  took  the  place  on  the 
high  altar  of  a  picture  of  Christ.  Around  it  shone 
numerous  tapers,  the  flames  of  which  rose  high  into 
the  air  in  waws  of  light. 

The  worthy  Abbe  of  San-Lucar,  robed  in  pontifical 
vestments,  his  mitre  adorned  with  precious  stones, 
and  bearing  his  rochet  and  his  golden  cross,  sat  king 
of  the  choir,  on  a  chair  of  imperial  luxury ;  in  the 
midst  of  his  clergy,  —  impassible  old  men,  with  silvery 
hair,  robed  in  the  finest  albs,  who  surrounded  him 
like  the  holy  confessors,  whom  the  painters  group 
about  the  Father  Eternal.  The  precentor  and  the  dig- 
nitaries of  the  Chapter,  decorated  with  the  insignia 
of  their  various  ecclesiastical  vanities,  came  and  went 


298  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

among  the  clouds  of  incense  like  stars  rolling  in  the 
firmament. 

When  the  hour  of  the  triumph  arrived,  a  peal  of  bells 
awoke  the  echoes  in  all  the  country  round,  and  the 
vast  assembly  sent  up  to  God  the  cry  of  praise,  which 
opens  the  Te  Denm.  That  sublime  cry  !  Pure,  light 
voices,  the  voices  of  women  in  ecstasy,  mingled  with 
the  strong  grave  voices  of  men,  thousands  of  voices, 
so  powerful  that  the  organ  could  not  dominate  their 
volume,  notwithstanding  the  roaring  of  its  pipes.  Only 
the  piercing  notes  of  the  choir  children,  and  the  heavy 
tones  of  the  basses,  suggested  ideas  of  childhood  and 
strength  in  that  mighty  concert  of  human  voices,  blend- 
ing in  the  sentiment  of  praise  :  — 

Te  Deum  laudamus  I 

From  the  bosom  of  that  mass  of  kneeling  men  and 
women,  rose  the  Chant  like  a  light  blazing  suddenly  at 
midnight ;  the  silence  was  broken  as  it  were  by  a  thun- 
der clap.  The  voices  ascended  on  the  clouds  of  incense, 
which  cast  their  diaphanous  bluish  veils  on  the  fan- 
tastic marvels  of  the  Saracenic  architecture.  All  was 
perfume,  light,  and  melod}7. 

At  the  moment  when  this  music  of  love  and  grati- 
tude rose  high  about  the  altar,  Don  Juan,  perhaps  too 
civil  not  to  acknowledge  it,  and  too  wise  not  to  per- 
ceive the  sarcasm,  replied  with  a  terrifying  laugh, 
and  bowed  with  dignity  in  his  shrine.  But  the  devil 
having  suddenly  made  him  think  that  he  ran  great 
risk  of  being  taken  for  an  ordinary  man,  a  saint,  a 
Boniface,  a  Pantaleone,  he  disturbed  that  melody  of 
love  and  praise  with  a  howl  in  which  a  thousand 
voices  of   the  devils   in  hell  joined    his.     The   earth 


The  Elixir  of  Life.  299 

praised  ;  the  heavens  cursed  ;  the  church  trembled  to 
its  old  foundations. 

"  Te  Deum  laudamus  !  "  chanted  the  vast  assemblage. 

"Go  to  the  devil  and  all  the  devils,  brute  beasts  that 
you  are  !  God  !  God  !  Carajos  demonios,  animals, 
fools  that  you  are  with  your  oid  man  God !  " 

And  a  torrent  of  imprecations  rolled  down  from  the 
shrine  like  the  burning  waves  of  Vesuvian  lava. 

"  Deus  Sabaoth  !  SabaotJif"  cried  the  multitude. 

"You  insult  the  majesty  of  hell!"  shouted  Don 
Juan,  grinding  his  teeth. 

Presently  the  living  arm  was  thrust  out  above  the 
shrine,  threatening  the  assembly,  with  gestures  of 
mingled  despair  and  scorn. 

"The  saint  is  blessing  us!"  cried  the  old  women, 
the  children,  the  brides,  and  all  the  credulous  folk. 

This  is  how  we  are  often  befooled  in  our  worship. 
The  superior  man  scoffs  at  those  who  make  obeisance 
to  him,  and  sometimes  he  makes  obeisance  to  those 
at  whom  he  scoffs. 

At  the  moment  when  the  abbe,  prostrating  himself 
before  the  altar,  intoned  the  invocation,  Sancte 
Johannis,  ora  pro  nobis,  he  heard  distinctly  from 
above  him  the  words,   "You  rogue!" 

"  What  is  happening  up  there?"  cried  the  sub-prior, 
observing  that  the  shrine  was  shaking. 

"  The  saint  is  playing  the  devil,"  replied  the  abbe. 

At  that  instant  the  living  head  wrenched  itself  vio- 
lently from  the  dead  body,  and  fell  upon  the  yellow 
skull  of  the  officiating  priest. 

"  Remember  Donna  Elvira  !  "  cried  the  head,  setting 
its  teeth  into  that  of  the  abbe. 


300  The  Elixir  of  Life. 

The  latter  uttered  a  dreadful  cry,  which  disturbed 
the  ceremony.  All  the  priests  rushed  up  and  surrounded 
their  sovereign. 

"  Idiot!  will  you  say  now,  that  there  is  a  God?" 
cried  the  voice,  as  the  abbe,  bitten  to  the  brain, 
expired. 


rp 


THE   HATED   SON. 


THE     HATED     SON. 


To  Madame  la  Baronne  James  Rothschild. 


PART    FIRST. 
HOW   THE   MOTHER  LIVED. 


I. 

A    BEDROOM    OF    THE    SIXTEENTH    CENTURY. 

On  a  winter's  night,  about  two  in  the  morning,  the 
Comtesse  Jeanne  d'Herouville  felt  such  violent  pains 
that  in  spite  of  her  inexperience,  she  was  conscious  of 
an  approaching  confinement ;  and  the  instinct  which 
makes  us  hope  for  ease  in  a  change  of  posture  induced 
her  to  sit  up  in  her  bed,  either  to  study  the  nature  of 
these  new  sufferings,  or  to  reflect  on  her  situation. 
She  was  a  prey  to  cruel  fears,  —  caused  less  by  the 
dread  of  a  first  lying-in,  which  terrifies  most  women, 
than  by  certain  dangers  which  awaited  her  child. 

In  order  not  to  awaken  her  husband  who  was  sleep- 
ing beside  her,  the  poor  woman  moved  with  precau- 
tions which  her  intense  terror  made  as  minute  as  those 
of  a  prisoner  endeavoring  to  escape.  Though  the 
pains  became  more  and  more  severe,  she  ceased  to  feel 


304  The  Hated  Son. 

them,  so  completely  did  she  concentrate  her  strength 
on  the  painful  effort  of  resting  her  two  moist  hands  on 
the  pillow  and  so  turning  her  suffering  body  from  a 
posture  in  which  she  could  find  no  ease.  At  the  slight- 
est rustling  of  the  huge  green  silk  coverlet,  under  which 
she  had  slept  but  little  since  her  marriage,  she  stopped 
as  though  she  had  rung  a  bell.  Forced  to  watch  the 
count,  she  divided  her  attention  between  the  folds  of 
the  rustling  stuff  and  a  large  swarthy  face,  the  mous- 
tache of  which  was  brushing  her  shoulder.  When 
some  noisier  breath  than  usual  left  her  husband's  lips, 
she  was  filled  with  a  sudden  terror  that  revived  the 
color  driven  from  her  cheeks  by  her  double  anguish. 

The  prisoner  reaching  the  prison  door  in  the  dead  of 
night  and  trying  to  uoiselessly  turn  the  key  in  a  piti- 
less lock,  was  never  more  timidly  bold. 

When  the  countess  had  succeeded  in  rising  to  her 
seat  without  awakening  her  keeper,  she  made  a  gesture 
of  childlike  joy  which  revealed  the  touching  naivete 
of  her  nature.  But  the  half -formed  smile  on  her  burn- 
ing lips  was  quickly  repressed ;  a  thought  came  to 
darken  that  pure  brow,  and  her  long  blue  eyes  resumed 
their  sad  expression.  She  gave  a  sigh  and  again  laid 
her  hands,  not  without  precaution,  on  the  fatal  con- 
jugal pillow.  Then  —  as  if  for  the  first  time  since  her 
marriage  she  found  herself  free  in  thought  and  action 
—  she  looked  at  the  things  around  her,  stretching  out 
her  neck  with  little  darting  motions  like  those  of  a  bird 
in  its  cage.  Seeing  her  thus,  it  was  easy  to  divine 
that  she  had  once  been  all  gayety  and  liglit-hearted- 
ness,  but  that  fate  had  suddenly  mown  down  her  hopes, 
and  changed  her  ingenuous  gayety  to  sadness. 


The  Hated  Son.  305 

The  chamber  was  one  of  those  which,  to  this  day 
octogenarian  porters  of  old  chateaus  point  out  to  visi- 
tors as  "the  state  bedroom  where  Louis  XIII.  once 
slept."  Fine  pictures,  mostly  brown  in  tone,  were 
framed  in  walnut,  the  delicate  carvings  of  which  were 
blackened  by  time.  The  rafters  of  the  ceiling  formed 
compartments  adorned  with  arabesques  in  the  style  of 
the  preceding  century,  which  preserved  the  colors  of 
the  chestnut  wood.  These  decorations,  severe  in  tone, 
reflected  the  light  so  little  that  it  was  difficult  to  see 
their  designs,  even  when  the  sun  shone  full  into  that 
long  and  wide  and  lofty  chamber.  The  silver  lamp, 
placed  upon  the  mantel  of  the  vast  fireplace,  lighted 
the  room  so  feebly  that  its  quivering  gleam  could  be 
compared  only  to  the  nebulous  stars  which  appear  at 
moments  through  the  dun  gray  clouds  of  an  autumn 
night.  The  fantastic  figures  crowded  on  the  marble 
of  the  fireplace,  which  was  opposite  to  the  bed,  were 
so  grotesquely  hideous  that  she  dared  not  fix  her  eyes 
upon  them,  fearing  to  see  them  move,  or  to  hear  a 
startling  laugh  from  their  gaping  and  twisted  mouths. 

At  this  moment  a  tempest  was  growling  in  the  chim- 
ney, giving  to  every  puff  of  wind  a  lugubrious  mean- 
ing, —  the  vast  size  of  the  flue  putting  the  hearth  into 
such  close  communication  with  the  skies  above  that 
the  embers  upon  it  had  a  sort  of  respiration ;  they 
sparkled  and  went  out  at  the  will  of  the  wind.  The 
arms  of  the  family  of  Herouville,  carved  in  white 
marble  with  their  mantle  and  supporters,  gave  the 
appearance  of  a  tomb  to  this  species  of  edifice,  which 
formed  a  pendant  to  the  bed,  another  erection  raised 
to  the  glory  of  Hymen.     Modern  architects  would  have 

20 


306  The  Hated  Son. 

been  puzzled  to  decide  whether  the  room  had  been 
built  for  the  bed  or  the  bed  for  the  room.  Two  cupids 
playing  on  the  walnut  headboard,  wreathed  with  gar- 
lands, might  have  passed  for  angels ;  and  columns  of 
the  same  wood,  supporting  the  tester  were  carved 
with  mythological  allegories,  the  explanation  of  which 
could  have  been  found  in  either  the  Bible  or  Ovid's 
Metamorphoses.  Take  away  the  bed,  and  the  same 
tester  would  have  served  in  a  church  for  the  canopy 
of  the  pulpit  or  the  seats  of  the  wardens.  The  mar- 
ried pair  mounted  by  three  steps  to  this  sumptuous 
couch,  which  stood  upon  a  platform  and  was  hung 
with  curtains  of  green  silk  covered  with  brilliant  de- 
signs called  vantages  —  possibly  because  the  birds  of 
gay  plumage  there  depicted  were  supposed  to  sing. 
The  folds  of  these  immense  curtains  were  so  stiff  that 
in  the  semi-darkness  they  might  have  been  taken  for 
some  metal  fabric.  On  the  green  velvet  hanging, 
adorned  with  gold  fringes,  which  covered  the  foot  of 
this  lordly  couch  the  superstition  of  the  Comtes 
d'Herouville  had  affixed  a  large  crucifix,  on  which  their 
chaplain  placed  a  fresh  branch  of  sacred  box  when  he 
renewed  at  Easter  the  holy  water  in  the  basin  at  the 
foot  of  the  cross. 

On  one  side  of  the  fireplace  stood  a  large  box  or 
wardrobe  of  choice  woods  magnificently  carved,  such 
as  brides  receive  even  now  in  the  provinces  on  their 
wedding  day.  These  old  chests,  now  so  much  in  re- 
quest by  antiquaries,  were  the  arsenals  from  which 
women  drew  the  rich  and  elegant  treasures  of  their 
personal  adornment,  — laces,  bodices,  high  collars  and 
ruffs,    gowns   of   price,    alms-purses,    masks,    gloves, 


The  Hated  Son.  307 

veils,  —  in  fact  all  the  inventions  of  coquetry  in  the 
sixteenth  century. 

On  the  other  side,  by  way  of  s}Tmmetry,  was  another 
piece  of  furniture,  somewhat  similar  in  shape,  where 
the  countess  kept  her  books,  papers,  and  jewels.  An- 
tique chairs  covered  with  damask,  a  large  and  green- 
ish mirror,  made  in  Venice,  and  richly  framed  in  a 
sort  of  rolling  toilet-table,  completed  the  furnishing  of 
the  room.  The  floor  was  covered  with  a  Persian  car- 
pet, the  richness  of  which  proved  the  gallantry  of 
the  count ;  on  the  upper  step  of  the  bed  stood  a  little 
table,  on  which  the  waiting-woman  served  every  night 
in  a  gold  or  silver  cup  a  drink  prepared  with  spices. 

After  we  have  gone  some  way  in  life  we  know  the 
secret  influence  exerted  by  places  on  the  condition  of 
the  soul.  Who  has  not  had  his  darksome  moments, 
when  fresh  hope  has  come  into  his  heart  from  things 
that  surrounded  him?  The  fortunate,  or  the  un- 
fortunate man,  attributes  an  intelligent  countenance 
to  the  things  among  which  he  lives ;  he  listens  to 
them,  he  consults  them  —  so  naturally  superstitious  is 
he.  At  this  moment  the  countess  turned  her  eyes 
upon  all  these  articles  of  furniture,  as  if  they  were 
living  beings  whose  help  and  protection  she  implored  ; 
but  the  answer  of  that  sombre  luxury  seemed  to  her 
inexorable. 

Suddenly  the  tempest  redoubled.  The  poor  young 
woman  could  augur  nothing  favorable  as  she  listened  to 
the  threatening  heavens,  the  changes  of  which  were  in- 
terpreted in  those  credulous  days  according  to  the  ideas 
or  the  habits  of  individuals.  Suddenly  she  turned  her 
eyes  to  the  two  arched  windows  at  the  end  of  the  room  ; 


308  The  Hated  Son. 

but  the  smallness  of  their  panes  and  the  multiplicity  of 
the  leaden  lines  did  not  allow  her  to  see  the  sky  and 
judge  if  the  world  were  coming  to  an  end,  as  certain 
monks,  eager  for  donations,  affirmed.  She  might 
easily  have  believed  in  such  predictions,  for  the  noise 
of  the  angry  sea,  the  waves  of  which  beat  against  the 
castle  wall,  combined  with  the  mighty  voice  of  the 
tempest,  so  that  even  the  rocks  appeared  to  shake. 
Though  her  sufferings  were  now  becoming  keener  and 
less  endurable,  the  countess  dared  not  awaken  her 
husband ;  but  she  turned  and  examined  his  features, 
as  if  despair  were  urging  her  to  find  a  consolation 
there  against  so  many  sinister  forebodings. 

If  matters  were  sad  around  the  poor  young  woman, 
that  face,  notwithstanding  the  tranquillity  of  sleep, 
seemed  sadder  still.  The  light  from  the  lamp,  flicker- 
ing in  the  draught,  scarcely  reached  beyond  the  foot  of 
the  bed  and  illumined  the  count's  head  capriciously  ;  so 
that  the  fitful  movements  of  its  flash  upon  those  features 
in  repose  produced  the  effect  of  a  struggle  with  angry 
thought.  The  countess  was  scarcely  reassured  by  per- 
ceiving the  cause  of  that  phenomenon.  Each  time  that 
a  gust  of  wind  projected  the  light  upon  the  count's 
large  face,  casting  shadows  among  its  bony  outlines, 
she  fancied  that  her  husband  was  about  to  fix  upon  her 
his  two  insupportably  stern  eyes. 

Implacable  as  the  war  then  going  on  between  the 
Church  and  Calvinism,  the  count's  forehead  was  threat- 
ening even  while  he  slept.  Many  furrows,  produced 
by  the  emotions  of  a  warrior  life,  gave  it  a  vague 
resemblance  to  the  vermiculated  stone  which  we  see 
in  the  buildings  of  that  period;  his  hair,  like  the  whitish 


The  Hated  Son.  309 

lichen  of  old  oaks,  gray  before  its  time,  surrounded 
without  grace  a  cruel  brow,  where  religious  intolerance 
showed  its  passionate  brutality.  The  shape  of  the 
aquiline  nose,  which  resembled  the  beak  of  a  bird  of 
prey,  the  black  and  crinkled  lids  of  the  yellow  eyes, 
the  prominent  bones  of  a  hollow  face,  the  rigidity  of 
the  wrinkles,  the  disdain  expressed  in  the  lower  lip, 
were  all  expressive  of  ambition,  despotism,  and  power, 
the  more  to  be  feared  because  the  narrowness  of  the 
skull  betrayed  an  almost  total  absence  of  intelligence, 
and  a  mere  brute  courage  devoid  of  generosity.  The 
face  was  horribly  disfigured  by  a  large  transversal  scar 
which  had  the  appearance  of  a  second  mouth  on  the 
right  cheek. 

At  the  age  of  thirty-three  the  count,  anxious  to 
distinguish  himself  in  that  unhappy  religious  war  the 
signal  for  which  was  given  on  Saint-Bartholomew's 
day,  had  been  grievously  wounded  at  the  siege  of 
Rochelle.  The  misfortune  of  this  wound  increased 
his  hatred  against  the  partisans  of  what  the  language 
of  that  day  called  "the  Religion,"  but,  by  a  not 
unnatural  turn  of  mind,  he  included  in  that  antipathy 
all  handsome  men.  Before  the  catastrophe,  however, 
he  was  so  repulsively  ugly  that  no  lady  had  ever  been 
willing  to  receive  him  as  a  suitor.  The  only  passion 
of  his  youth  was  for  a  celebrated  woman  called  La 
Belle  Romaine.  The  distrust  resulting  from  this  new 
misfortune  made  him  suspicious  to  the  point  of  not 
believing  himself  capable  of  inspiring  a  true  passion ; 
and  his  character  became  so  savage  that  when  he  did 
have  some  successes  in  gallantry  he  owed  them  to  the 
terror  inspired  by  his  cruelty.     The  left  hand  of  this 


310  The  Hated  Son. 

terrible  Catholic,  which  lay  on  the  outside  of  the  bed, 
will  complete  this  sketch  of  his  character.  Stretched 
out  as  if  to  guard  the  countess,  as  a  miser  guards  his 
hoard,  that  enormous  hand  was  covered  with  hair  so 
thick,  it  presented  such  a  network  of  veins  and  pro- 
jecting muscles,  that  it  gave  the  idea  of  a  branch  of 
birch  clasped  with  a  growth  of  yellowing  ivy. 

Children  looking:  at  the  count's  face  would  have 
thought  him  an  ogre,  terrible  tales  of  whom  they  knew 
by  heart.  It  was  enough  to  see  the  width  and  length 
of  the  space  occupied  by  the  count  in  the  bed,  to 
imagine  his  gigantic  proportions.  When  awake,  his 
gray  eyebrows  hid  his  eyelids  in  a  way  to  heighten  the 
light  of  his  eye,  which  glittered  with  the  luminous 
ferocity  of  a  wolf  skulking  on  the  watch  in  a  forest. 
Under  his  lion  nose,  with  its  flaring  nostrils,  a  large 
and  ill-kept  moustache  (for  he  despised  all  toilet 
niceties)  completely  concealed  the  upper  lip.  Hap- 
pily for  the  countess,  her  husband's  wide  mouth  was 
silent  at  this  moment,  for  the  softest  sounds  of  that 
harsh  voice  made  her  tremble.  Though  the  Comte 
d'Herouville  was  barely  fifty  years  of  age,  he  appeared 
at  first  sight  to  be  sixty,  so  much  had  the  toils  of  war, 
without  injuring  his  robust  constitution,  dilapidated 
him  physically. 

The  countess,  who  was  now  in  her  nineteenth  year, 
made  a  painful  contrast  to  that  large,  repulsive  figure. 
She  was  fair  and  slim.  Her  chestnut  locks,  threaded 
with  gold,  played  upon  her  neck  like  russet  shadows, 
and  defined  a  face  such  as  Carlo  Dolce  has  painted  for 
his  ivory-toned  madonnas,  —  a  face  which  now  seemed 
ready  to  expire  under  the  increasing  attacks  of  physical 


The  Hated  Son.  311 

pain.  You  might  have  thought  her  the  apparition  of 
an  angel  sent  from  heaven  to  soften  the  iron  will  of  the 
terrible  count. 

"No,  he  "will  not  kill  us!"  she  cried  to  herself 
mentally,  after  contemplating  her  husband  for  a  long 
time.  "He  is  frank,  courageous,  faithful  to  his  word 
—  faithful  to  his  word  !  " 

Repeating  that  last  sentence  in  her  thoughts,  she 
trembled  violently,  and  remained  as  if  stupefied. 

To  understand  the  horror  of  her  present  situation, 
we  must  add  that  this  nocturnal  scene  took  place  in 
1591,  a  period  when  civil  war  raged  throughout  France, 
and  the   laws    had    no  vioor.      The   excesses    of   the 

en 

League,  opposed  to  the  accession  of  Henri  IV.,  sur- 
passed the  calamities  of  the  religious  wars.  License 
was  so  universal  that  no  one  was  surprised  to  see  a 
great  lord  kill  his  enemy  in  open  day.  When  a 
military  expedition,  having  a  private  object,  was  led 
in  the  name  of  the  King  or  of  the  League,  one  or 
other  of  these  parties  applauded  it.  It  was  thus  that 
Blagny,  a  soldier,  came  near  becoming  a  sovereign 
prince  at  the  gates  of  France.  Sometime  before 
Henri  III.'s  death,  a  court  lady  murdered  a  noble- 
man who  had  made  offensive  remarks  about  her.  One 
of  the  king's  minions  remarked  to  him :  — 

"Hey!  vive  Dieuf  sire,  she  daggered  him  finety !  " 
The  Comte  d'Herouville,  one  of  the  most  rabid  royal- 
ists in  Normandy,  kept  the  part  of  that  province  which 
adjoins  Brittany  under  subjection  to  Henri  IV.  by  the 
rigor  of  his  executions.  The  head  of  one  of  the  richest 
families  in  France,  he  had  considerably  increased  the 
revenues  of  his  great  estates  by  marrying  seven  months 


312  The  Hated  Son. 

before  the  night  on  which  this  history  begins,  Jeanne 
de  Saint- Savin,  a  young  lady  who,  by  a  not  uncommon 
chance  in  days  when  people  were  killed  off  like  flies, 
had  suddenly  become  the  representative  of  both 
branches  of  the  Saint-Savin  family.  Necessity  and 
terror  were  the  causes  which  led  to  this  union.  At  a 
banquet  given,  two  months  after  the  marriage,  to  the 
Comte  and  Comtesse  d'Herouville,  a  discussion  arose 
on  a  topic  which  in  those  days  of  ignorance  was 
thought  amusing :  namely,  the  legitimacy  of  children 
coming  into  the  world  ten  months  after  the  death  of 
their  fathers,  or  seven  months  after  the  wedding  day. 

u  Madame,"  said  the  count  brutally,  turning  to  his 
wife,  "  if  you  give  me  a  child  ten  months  after  my 
death,  I  cannot  help  it ;  but  be  careful  that  you  are  not 
brought  to  bed  in  seven  months !  " 

"What  would  you  do  then,  old  bear?"  asked  the 
young  Marquis  de  Verneuil,  thinking  that  the  count 
was  joking. 

"  I  should  wring  the  necks  of  mother  and  child!" 

An  answer  so  peremptory  closed  the  discussion,  im- 
prudently started  by  a  seigneur  from  Lower-Normandy. 
The  guests  were  silent,  looking  with  a  sort  of  terror  at 
the  pretty  Comtesse  d'Herouville.  All  were  convinced 
that  if  such  an  event  occurred,  her  savage  lord  would 
execute  his  threat. 

The  words  of  the  count  echoed  in  the  bosom  of  the 
young  wife,  then  pregnant ;  one  of  those  presentiments 
which  furrow  a  track  like  lightning  through  the  soul, 
told  her  that  her  child  would  be  born  at  seven  months. 
An  inward  heat  overflowed  her  from  head  to  foot,  send- 
ing the  life's  blood  to  her  heart  with  such  violence  that 


The  Hated  Son.  313 

the  surface  of  her  body  felt  bathed  in  ice.  From  that 
hour  not  a  day  had  passed  that  the  sense  of  secret  ter- 
ror did  not  check  every  impulse  of  heL'  innocent  gayety. 
The  memory  of  the  look,  of  the  inflections  of  voice 
with  which  the  count  accompanied  his  words,  still  froze 
her  blood,  and  silenced  her  sufferings,  as  she  leaned 
over  that  sleeping  head,  and  strove  to  see  some  sign  of 
a  pit}7  she  had  vainly  sought  there  when  awake. 

The  child,  threatened  with  death  before  its  life  began, 
made  so  vigorous  a  movement  that  she  cried  aloud,  in 
a  voice  that  seemed  like  a  sigh,  "  Poor  babe !  " 

She  said  no  more;  there  are  ideas  that  a  mother  can- 
not bear.  Incapable  of  reasoning  at  this  moment,  the 
countess  was  almost  choked  with  the  intensity  of  a 
suffering  as  yet  unknown  to  her.  Two  tears,  escaping 
from  her  eyes,  rolled  slowly  down  her  cheeks,  and 
traced  two  shining  lines,  remaining  suspended  at  the 
bottom  of  that  white  face,  like  dewdrops  on  a  lily. 
What  learned  man  would  take  upon  himself  to  say  that 
the  child  unborn  is  on  some  neutral  ground,  where  the 
emotions  of  its  mother  do  not  penetrate  during  those 
hours  when  soul  clasps  body  and  communicates  its  im- 
pressions, when  thought  permeates  blood  with  healing 
balm  or  poisonous  fluids?  The  terror  that  shakes  the 
tree  will  it  not  hurt  the  fruit?  Those  words,  "Poor 
babe  !  "  were  they  dictated  by  a  vision  of  the  future  ? 
The  shuddering  of  this  mother  was  violent ;  her  look 
piercing. 

The  bloody  answer  given  by  the  count  at  the  banquet 
was  a  link  mysteriously  connecting  the  past  with  this 
premature  confinement.  That  odious  suspicion,  thus 
publicly  expressed,  had  cast  into  the  memories  of  the 


314  The  Hated  Son. 

countess  a  dread  which  echoed  to  the  future.  Since 
that  fatal  gala,  she  had  driven  from  her  mind,  with  as 
much  fear  as  another  woman  would  have  found  pleasure 
in  evoking  them,  a  thousand  scattered  scenes  of  her  past 
existence.  She  refused  even  to  think  of  the  happy 
days  when  her  heart  was  free  to  love.  Like  as  the 
melodies  of  their  native  land  make  exiles  weep,  so 
these  memories  revived  sensations  so  delightful  that 
her  young  conscience  thought  them  crimes,  and  used 
them  to  enforce  still  further  the  savage  threat  of  the 
count.  There  lay  the  secret  of  the  horror  which  was 
now  oppressing  her  soul. 

Sleeping  figures  possess  a  sort  of  suavity,  due  to  the 
absolute  repose  of  both  body  and  mind  ;  but  though 
that  species  of  calmness  softened  but  slightly  the 
harsh  expression  of  the  count's  features,  all  illusion 
granted  to  the  unhappy  is  so  persuasive  that  the  poor 
wife  ended  by  finding  hope  in  that  tranquillity.  The 
roar  of  the  tempest,  now  descending  in  torrents  of  rain, 
seemed  to  her  no  more  than  a  melancholy  moan ;  her 
fears  and  her  pains  both  yielded  her  a  momentary 
respite.  Contemplating  the  man  to  whom  her  life  was 
bound,  the  countess  allowed  herself  to  float  into  a 
revery,  the  sweetness  of  which  was  so  intoxicating  that 
she  had  no  strength  to  break  its  charm.  For  a  moment, 
by  one  of  those  visions  which  in  some  way  share  the 
divine  power,  there  passed  before  her  rapid  images  of 
a  happiness  lost  beyond  recall. 

Jeanne  in  her  vision  saw  faintly,  and  as  if  in  a  distant 
gleam  of  dawn,  the  modest  castle  where  her  careless 
childhood  had  glided  on ;  there  were  the  verdant 
lawns,  the  rippling  brook,  the  little  chamber,  the  scenes 


The  Hated  Sun.  315 

of  her  happy  play.  She  saw  herself  gathering  flowers 
and  planting  them,  unknowing  why  they  wilted  and 
would  not  grow,  despite  her  constancy  in  watering 
them.  Next,  she  saw  confusedly  the  vast  town  and 
the  vast  house  blackened  by  age,  to  which  her  mother 
took  her  when  she  was  seven  years  old.  Her  lively 
memory  showed  her  the  old  gray  heads  of  the  masters 
who  taught  and  tormented  her.  She  remembered  the 
person  of  her  father  ;  she  saw  him  getting  off  his  mule 
at  the  door  of  the  manor-house,  and  taking  her  by  the 
hand  to  lead  her  up  the  stairs  ;  she  recalled  how  her 
prattle  drove  from  his  brow  the  judicial  cares  he  did 
not  always  lay  aside  with  his  black  or  his  red  robes, 
the  white  fur  of  which  fell  one  day  by  chance  under  the 
snipping  of  her  mischievous  scissors.  She  cast  but  one 
glance  at  the  confessor  of  her  aunt,  the  mother-superior 
of  a  convent  of  Poor  Clares,  a  rigid  and  fanatical  old 
man,  whose  duty  it  was  to  initiate  her  into  the  myste- 
ries of  religion.  Hardened  b}7  the  severities  necessary 
against  heretics,  the  old  priest  never  ceased  to  jangle 
the  chains  of  hell ;  he  told  her  of  nothing  but  the 
vengeance  of  Heaven,  and  made  her  tremble  with  the 
assurance  that  God's  eye  wTas  on  her.  Rendered  timid, 
she  dared  not  raise  her  eyes  in  the  priest's  presence, 
and  ceased  to  have  any  feeling  but  respect  for  her 
mother,  whom  up  to  that  time  she  had  made  a  sharer 
in  all  her  frolics.  When  she  saw  that  beloved  mother 
turning  her  blue  eyes  towards  her  with  an  appearance 
of  anger,  a  religious  terror  took  possession  of  the  girl's 
heart. 

Then    suddenly  the  vision   took  her  to  the  second 
period  of  her  childhood,  when  as  yet  she  understood 


316  The  Hated  Son. 

nothing  of  the  things  of  life.  She  thought  with  an 
almost  mocking  regret  of  the  days  when  all  her  happi- 
ness was  to  work  beside  her  mother  in  the  tapestried 
salon,  to  pray  in  the  church,  to  sing  her  ballads  to  a 
lute,  to  read  in  secret  a  romance  of  chivalry,  to  pluck 
the  petals  of  a  flower,  discover  what  gift  her  father 
would  make  her  on  the  feast  of  the  Blessed  Saint- John, 
and  find  out  the  meaning  of  speeches  repressed  before 
her.  Passing  thus  from  her  childish  joys  through  the 
sixteen  years  of  her  girlhood,  the  grace  of  those  softly 
flowing  years  when  she  knew  no  pain  was  eclipsed  by 
the  brightness  of  a  memory  precious  though  ill-fated. 
The  joyous  peace  of  her  childhood  was  far  less  sweet 
to  her  than  a  single  one  of  the  troubles  scattered  upon 
the  last  two  years  of  her  childhood,  — years  that  were 
rich  in  treasures  now  buried  forever  in  her  heart. 

The  vision  brought  her  suddenly  to  that  morning, 
that  ravishing  morning,  when  in  the  grand  old  parlor 
panelled  and  carved  in  oak,  which  served  the  family 
as  a  dining-room,  she  saw  her  handsome  cousin  for  the 
first  time.  Alarmed  by  the  seditions  in  Paris,  her 
mother's  family  had  sent  the  young  courtier  to  Rouen, 
hoping  that  he  could  there  be  trained  to  the  duties  of 
the  magistracy  by  his  uncle,  whose  office  might  some 
day  devolve  upon  him.  The  countess  smiled  involun- 
tarily as  she  remembered  the  haste  with  which  she 
retired  on  seeing  this  relation  whom  she  did  not  know. 
But,  in  spite  of  the  rapidity  with  which  she  opened  and 
shut  the  door,  a  single  glance  had  put  into  her  soul  so 
vigorous  an  impression  of  the  scene  that  even  at  this 
moment  she  seemed  to  see  it  still  occurring.  Her  e}Te 
a°ain  wandered  from  the  violet  velvet  mantle  embroid- 


The  Hated  Son.  317 

ered  with  gold  and  lined  with  satin  to  the  spurs  on  the 
boots,  the  pretty  lozenges  slashed  into  the  doublet,  the 
trunk-hose,  and  the  rich  collaret  which  gave  to  view  a 
throat  as  white  as  the  lace  around  it.  She  stroked 
with  her  hand  the  handsome  face  with  its  tiny  pointed 
moustache,  and  "  royale  "  as  small  as  the  ermine  tips 
upon  her  father's  hood. 

In  the  silence  of  the  night,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  green  silk  curtains  which  she  no  longer  saw,  the 
countess,  forgetting  the  storm,  her  husband,  and  her 
fears,  recalled  the  days  which  seemed  to  her  longer 
than  years,  so  full  wrere  they,  —  days  when  she  loved, 
and  was  beloved  !  —  and  the  moment  when,  fearing  her 
mother's  sternness,  she  had  slipped  one  morning  into 
her  father's  study  to  whisper  her  girlish  confidences  on 
his  knee,  waiting  for  his  smile  at  her  caresses  to  say  in 
his  ear,  "  Will  you  scold  me  if  I  tell  you  something?  " 
Once  more  she  heard  her  father  say,  after  a  few  ques- 
tions in  reply  to  which  she  spoke  for  the  first  time  of 
her  love,  "Well,  well,  my  child,  we  will  think  of  it. 
If  he  studies  well,  if  he  fits  himself  to  succeed  me, 
if  he  continues  to  please  you,  I  will  be  on  your  side." 

After  that  she  had  listened  no  longer ;  she  had  kissed 
her  father,  and,  knocking  over  his  papers  as  she  ran 
from  the  room,  she  flew  to  the  great  linden-tree  wmere, 
daily,  before  her  formidable  mother  rose,  she  met  that 
charming  cousin,  Georges  de  Chaverny. 

Faithfully  the  youth  promised  to  study  law  and  cus- 
toms. He  laid  aside  the  splendid  trappings  of  the 
nobility  of  the  sword  to  wear  the  sterner  costume  of 
the  magistracy. 

"  I  like  you  better  in  black,"  she  said. 


318  The  Hated  Son. 

It  was  a  falsehood,  but  by  that  falsehood  she  com- 
forted her  lover  for  having  thrown  his  dagger  to  the 
winds.  The  memory  of  the  little  schemes  employed  to 
deceive  her  mother,  whose  severity  seemed  great, 
brought  back  to  her  the  soulful  joys  of  that  innocent 
and  mutual  and  sanctioned  love  ;  sometimes  a  rendez- 
vous beneath  the  linden,  where  speech  could  be  freer 
than  before  witnesses;  sometimes  a  furtive  clasp,  or  a 
stolen  kiss,  —  in  short,  all  the  naive  instalments  of  a 
passion  that  did  not  pass  the  bounds  of  modesty.  Re- 
living in  her  vision  those  delightful  days  when  she 
seemed  to  have  too  much  happiness,  she  fancied  that 
she  kissed,  in  the  void,  that  fine  young  face  with  the 
glowing  eyes,  that  rosy  mouth  that  spoke  so  well  of 
love.  Yes,  she  had  loved  Chaverny,  poor  apparently ; 
but  what  treasures  had  she  not  discovered  in  that  soul 
as  tender  as  it  was  strong  ! 

Suddenly  her  father  died.  Chaverny  did  not  suc- 
ceed him.  The  flames  of  civil  war  burst  forth.  By 
Chaverny's  care  she  and  her  mother  found  refuge  in  a 
little  town  of  Lower  Normandy.  Soon  the  deaths  of 
other  relatives  made  her  one  of  the  richest  heiresses  in 
France.  Happiness  disappeared  as  wealth  came  to  her. 
The  savage  and  terrible  face  of  Comte  d'Herouville, 
who  asked  her  hand,  rose  before  her  like  a  thunder- 
cloud, spreading  its  gloom  over  the  smiling  meadows 
so  lately  gilded  by  the  sun.  The  poor  countess  strove 
to  cast  from  her  memory  the  scenes  of  weeping  and 
despair  brought  about  by  her  long  resistance. 

At  last  came  an  awful  night  when  her  mother,  pale 
and  dying,  threw  herself  at  her  daughter's  feet. 
Jeanne  could  save  Chaverny's   life   by  yielding;  she 


The  Hated  Son.  319 

yielded.  It  was  night.  The  count,  arriving  bloody 
from  the  battlefield  was  there ;  all  was  ready,  the 
priest,  the  altar,  the  torches !  Jeanne  belonged  hence- 
forth to  misery.  Scarcely  had  she  time  to  say  to  her 
young  cousin  who  was  set  at  liberty :  — 

"  Georges,  if  you  love  me,  never  see  me  again !  " 

She  heard  the  departing  steps  of  her  lover,  whom,  in 
truth,  she  never  saw  again ;  but  in  the  depths  of  her 
heart  she  still  kept  sacred  his  last  look  which  returned 
perpetually  in  her  dreams  and  illumined  them.  Living 
like  a  cat  shut  into  a  lion's  cage,  the  young  wife 
dreaded  at  all  hours  the  claws  of  the  master  which  ever 
threatened  her.  She  knew  that  in  order  to  be  happy 
she  must  forget  the  past  and  think  only  of  the  future ; 
but  there  were  days,  consecrated  to  the  memory  of 
some  vanished  joy,  when  she  deliberately  made  it  a 
crime  to  put  on  the  gown  she  had  worn  on  the  day  she 
had  seen  her  lover  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  am  not  guilty,"  she  said,  "  but  if  I  seem  guilty 
to  the  count  it  is  as  if  I  were  so.  Perhaps  I  am  !  The 
Holy  Virgin  conceived  without  —  " 

She  stopped.  During  this  moment  when  her  thoughts 
were  misty  and  her  soul  floated  in  a  region  of  fantasy 
her  naivete'  made  her  attribute  to  that  last  look  with 
which  her  lover  transfixed  her  the  occult  power 
of  the  visitation  of  the  angel  to  the  Mother  of  her 
Lord.  This  supposition,  worthy  of  the  days  of 
innocence  to  which  her  revery  had  carried  her  back, 
vanished  before  the  memory  of  a  conjugal  scene  more 
odious  than  death.  The  poor  countess  could  have  no 
real  doubt  as  to  the  legitimacy  of  the  child  that  stirred 
in  her  womb.    The  night  of  her  marriage  reappeared 


320  The  Hated  Son. 

to  her  in  all  the  horror  of  its  agony,  bringing  in  its 
train  other  such  nights  and  sadder  days. 

"  Ah  !  my  poor  Chaverny  !  "  she  cried,  weeping,  "  yon 
so  respectful,  so  gracious,  you  were  always  kind  to 
me." 

She  turned  her  eyes  to  her  husband  as  if  to  persuade 
herself  that  that  harsh  face  contained  a  promise  of 
mercy,  dearly  bought.  The  count  was  awake.  His 
yellow  eyes,  clear  as  those  of  a  tiger,  glittered  beneath 
their  tufted  eyebrows  and  never  had  his  glance  been  so 
incisive.  The  countess,  terrified  at  having  encountered 
it,  slid  back  under  the  great  counterpane  and  was 
motionless. 

"Why  are  }7ou  weeping?"  said  the  count,  pulling 
away  the  covering  which  hid  his  wife. 

That  voice,  always  a  terror  to  her,  had  a  specious 
softness  at  this  moment  which  seemed  to  her  of  good 
augury. 

"  I  suffer  much,"  she  answered. 

"  Well,  my  pretty  one,  it  is  no  crime  to  suffer ;  wh}7 
did  you  tremble  when  I  looked  at  you  ?  Alas  !  what 
must  I  do  to  be  loved  ?  "  The  wrinkles  of  his  forehead 
between  the  eyebrows  deepened.  "  I  see  plainly  you 
are  afraid  of  me,"  he  added,  sighing. 

Prompted  by  the  instinct  of  feeble  natures  the  coun- 
tess interrupted  the  count  by  moans,  exclaiming :  — 

"  I  fear  a  miscarriage  J  I  clambered  over  the  rocks 
last  evening  and  tired  myself." 

Hearing  those  words,  the  count  cast  so  horribly 
suspicious  a  look  upon  his  wife,  that  she  reddened  and 
shuddered.  He  mistook  the  fear  of  the  innocent 
creature  for  remorse. 


The  Hated  Son.  321 

"  Perhaps  it  is  the  beginning  of  a  regular  childbirth," 
he  said. 

"  What  then?  "  she  said. 

"  In  any  case,  I  must  have  a  proper  man  here,"  he 
said.     "I  will  fetch  one." 

The  gloomy  look  which  accompanied  these  words 
overcame  the  countess,  who  fell  back  in  the  bed  with  a 
moan,  caused  more  by  a  sense  of  her  fate  than  by  the 
agony  of  the  coming  crisis ;  that  moan  convinced  the 
count  of  the  justice  of  the  suspicions  that  were  rising 
in  his  mind.  Affecting  a  calmness  which  the  tones  of 
his  voice,  his  gestures,  and  looks  contradicted,  he  rose 
hastily,  wrapped  himself  in  a  dressing-gown  which  lay  on 
a  chair,  and  began  by  locking  a  door  near  the  chimney 
through  which  the  state  bedroom  was  entered  from  the 
reception  rooms  which  communicated  with  the  great 
staircase. 

Seeing  her  husband  pocket  that  key,  the  countess 
had  a  presentiment  of  danger.  She  next  heard  him 
open  the  door  opposite  to  that  which  he  had  just 
locked  and  enter  a  room  where  the  counts  of  Herouville 
slept  when  they  did  not  honor  their  wives  with  their 
noble  company.  The  countess  knew  of  that  room  only 
by  hearsay.  Jealousy  kept  her  husband  always  with 
her.  If  occasionally  some  military  expedition  forced 
him  to  leave  her,  the  count  left  more  than  one  Argus, 
whose  incessant  spying  proved  his  shameful  distrust. 

In  spite  of  the  attention  the  countess  now  gave  to 
the  slightest  noise,  she  heard  nothing  more.  The 
count  had,  in  fact,  entered  a  long  gallery  leading  from 
his  room  which  continued  down  the  western  wing  of 
the  castle.     Cardinal  d'Herouville,  his   great-uncle,  a 

21 


322  The  Hated  Son. 

passionate  lover  of  the  works  of  printing,  had  there 
collected  a  library  as  interesting  for  the  number  as  for 
the  beauty  of  its  volumes,  and  prudence  had  caused 
him  to  build  into  the  walls  one  of  those  curious  in- 
ventions suggested  by  solitude  or  by  monastic  fears. 
A  silver  chain  set  in  motion,  by  means  of  invisible 
wires,  a  bell  placed  at  the  bed's  head  of  a  faithful 
servitor.  The  count  now  pulled  the  chain,  and  the  boots 
and  spurs  of  the  man  on  duty  sounded  on  the  stone 
steps  of  a  spiral  staircase,  placed  in  the  tall  tower 
which  flanked  the  western  corner  of  the  chateau  on  the 
ocean  side. 

When  the  count  heard  the  steps  of  his  retainer 
he  pulled  back  the  rusty  bolts  which  protected  the 
door  leading  from  the  gallery  to  the  tower,  admitting 
into  the  sanctuary  of  learning  a  man  of  arms  whose 
stalwart  appearance  was  in  keeping  with  that  of  his 
master.  This  man,  scarcely  awakened,  seemed  to 
have  walked  there  by  instinct ;  the  horn  lantern  which 
he  held  in  his  hand  threw  so  feeble  a  gleam  down  the 
long  library  that  his  master  and  he  appeared  in  that 
visible  darkness  like  two  phantoms. 

"  Saddle  my  war-horse  instantly,  and  come  with  me 
yourself." 

This  order  was  given  in  a  deep  tone  which  roused 
the  man's  intelligence.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  those  of 
his  master  and  encountered  so  piercing  a  look  that  the 
effect  was  that  of  an  electric  shock. 

"  Bertrand,"  added  the  count  laying  his  right  hand 
on  the  servant's  arm,  "  take  off  your  cuirass,  and  wear 
the  uniform  of  a  captain  of  guerillas." 

"  Heavens  and  earth,  monseigneur  !    What?  disguise 


The  Hated  Son.  323 

myself  as  a  Leaguer !  Excuse  me,  I  will  obey  you ; 
but  I  would  rather  be  hanged." 

The  count  smiled  ;  then  to  efface  that  smile,  which 
contrasted  with  the  expression  of  his  face,  he  answered 
roughty :  — 

"  Choose  the  strongest  horse  there  is  in  the  stable 
and  follow  me.  "We  shall  ride  like  balls  shot  from  an 
arquebuse.  Be  ready  when  I  am  ready.  I  will  ring  to 
let  you  know." 

Bertrand  bowed  in  silence  and  went  away ;  but  when 
he  had  gone  a  few  steps  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
listened  to  the  howling  of  the  storm :  — 

"All  the  devils  are  abroad,  jarnidieuf  I'd  have 
been  surprised  to  see  this  one  stay  quietly  in  his  bed. 
We  took  Saint-L6  in  just  such  a  tempest  as  this." 

The  count  kept  in  his  room  a  disguise  which  often 
served  him  in  his  campaign  stratagems.  Putting  on 
the  shabby  buff-coat  that  looked  as  though  it  might 
belong  to  one  of  the  poor  horse-soldiers  whose  pit- 
tance was  so  seldom  paid  by  Henri  IV.,  he  returned  to 
the  room  where  his  wife  was  moaning. 

"  Try  to  suffer  patiently,"  he  said  to  her.  "I  will 
founder  my  horse  if  necessary  to  bring  you  speedy 
relief." 

These  words  were  certainly  not  alarming,  and  the 
countess,  emboldened  by  them,  was  about  to  make  a 
request  when  the  count  asked  her  suddenly  :  — 

"  Tell  me  where  you  keep  your  masks?  " 

"  My  masks!  "  she  replied.  "  Good  God  !  what  do 
you  want  to  do  with  them  ?  " 

"Where  are  they?"  he  repeated,  with  his  usual 
violence. 


324  The  Hated  Son. 

"In  the  chest,"  she  said. 

She  shuddered  when  she  saw  her  husband  select 
from  among  her  masks  a  touret  de  nez,  the  wearing  of 
which  was  as  common  among  the  ladies  of  that  time  as 
the  wearing  of  gloves  in  our  day.  The  count  became 
entirely  unrecognizable  after  he  had  put  an  old  gray 
felt  hat  with  a  broken  cock's-feather  on  his  head.  He 
girded  round  his  loins  a  broad  leathern  belt,  in  which 
he  stuck  a  dagger,  which  he  did  not  wear  habitually. 
These  miserable  garments  gave  him  so  terrifying  an  air 
and  he  approached  the  bed  with  so  strange  a  motion 
that  the  countess  thought  her  last  hour  had  come. 

"Ah!  don't  kill  us!"  she  cried,  "leave  me  my 
child,  and  I  will  love  you  well." 

"  You  must  feel  yourself  very  guilty  to  offer  as  the 
ransom  of  your  faults  the  love  you  owe  me." 

The  count's  voice  was  lugubrious  and  the  bitter 
words  were  enforced  by  a  look  which  fell  like  lead 
upon  the  countess. 

"  My  God  !  "  she  cried  sorrowfully,  "  can  innocence 
be  fatal?" 

"  Your  death  is  not  in  question,"  said  her  master, 
coming  out  of  a  sort  of  revery  into  which  he  had  fallen. 
"  You  are  to  do  exactly,  and  for  love  of  me,  what  I 
shall  now  tell  you." 

He  flung  upon  the  bed  one  of  the  two  masks  he  had 
taken  from  the  chest,  and  smiled  with  derision  as  he 
saw  the  gesture  of  involuntary  fear  which  the  slight 
shock  of  the  black  velvet  wrung  from  his  wife. 

"  You  will  give  me  a  puny  child !  "  he  cried.  "  Wear 
that  mask  on  your  face  when  I  return.  "  I  '11  have  no 
barber-surgeon  boast  that  he  has  seen  the  Comtesse 
d'Herouville." 


The  Hated  Son.  325 

"A  man!  —  why  choose  a  man  for  the  purpose?" 
she  said  in  a  feeble  voice. 

'"'  Ho !  ho!  my  lady,  am  I  not  master  here?"  re- 
plied the  count. 

"  What  matters  one  horror  the  more!"  murmured 
the  countess  ;  but  her  master  had  disappeared,  and  the 
exclamation  did  her  no  injury. 

Presently,  in  a  brief  lull  of  the  storm,  the  countess 
heard  the  gallop  of  two  horses  which  seemed  to  fly 
across  the  sandy  dunes  by  which  the  castle  was  sur- 
rounded. The  sound  was  quickly  lost  in  that  of  the 
waves.  Soon  she  felt  herself  a  prisoner  in  the  vast 
apartment,  alone  in  the  midst  of  a  night  both  silent 
and  threatening,  and  without  succor  against  an  evil 
she  saw  approaching  her  with  rapid  strides.  In  vain 
she  sought  for  some  stratagem  by  which  to  save  that 
child  conceived  in  tears,  already  her  consolation,  the 
spring  of  all  her  thoughts,  the  future  of  her  affections, 
her  one  frail  hope. 

Sustained  by  maternal  courage,  she  took  the  horn 
with  which  her  husband  summoned  his  men,  and,  open- 
ing a  window,  blew  through  the  brass  tube  feeble  notes 
that  died  away  upon  the  vast  expanse  of  water,  like  a 
bubble  blown  into  the  air  by  a  child.  She  felt  the  use- 
lessness  of  that  moan  unheard  of  men,  and  turned 
to  hasten  through  the  apartments,  hoping  that  all  the 
issues  were  not  closed  upon  her.  Reaching  the  library 
she  sought  in  vain  for  some  secret  passage ;  then, 
passing  between  the  long  rows  of  books,  she  reached 
a  window  which  looked  upon  the  courtyard.  Again 
she  sounded  the  horn,  but  without  success  against  the 
voice  of  the  hurricane. 


326  The  Hated  Son. 

In  her  helplessness  she  thought  of  trusting  herself  to 
one  of  the  women,  —  all  creatures  of  her  husband,  — 
when,  passing  into  her  oratory,  she  found  that  the 
count  had  locked  the  only  door  that  led  to  their  apart- 
ments. This  was  a  horrible  discovery.  Such  precau- 
tions taken  to  isolate  her  showed  a  desire  to  proceed 
without  witnesses  to  some  terrible  execution.  As 
moment  after  moment  she  lost  hope,  the  pangs  of 
childbirth  grew  stronger  and  keener.  A  presentiment 
of  murder,  joined  to  the  fatigue  of  her  efforts,  over- 
came her  last  remaining  strength.  She  was  like  a 
shipwrecked  man  who  sinks,  borne  under  by  one  last 
wave  less  furious  than  others  he  has  vanquished.  The 
bewildering  pangs  of  her  condition  kept  her  from 
knowing  the  lapse  of  time.  At  the  moment  when  she 
felt  that,  alone,  without  help,  she  was  about  to  give 
birth  to  her  child,  and  to  all  her  other  terrors  was 
added  that  of  the  accidents  to  which  her  ignorance 
exposed  her,  the  count  appeared,  without  a  sound  that 
let  her  know  of  his  arrival.  The  man  was  there,  like 
a  demon  claiming  at  the  close  of  a  compact  the  soul 
that  was  sold  to  him.  He  muttered  angrily  at  finding 
his  wife's  face  uncovered ;  then  after  masking  her 
carefully,  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  laid  her  on  the 
bed  in  her  chamber. 


The  Hated  Son.  327 


II. 

THE    BONESETTER. 

The  terror  of  that  apparition  and  hasty  removal 
stopped  for  a  moment  the  physical  sufferings  of  the 
countess,  and  so  enabled  her  to  cast  a  furtive  glance 
at  the  actors  in  this  mysterious  scene.  She  did  not 
recognize  Bertrand,  who  was  there  disguised  and 
masked  as  carefully  as  his  master.  After  lighting  in 
haste  some  caudles,  the  light  of  which  mingled  with  the 
first  rays  of  the  sun  which  were  reddening  the  window 
panes,  the  old  servitor  had  gone  to  the  embrasure  of 
a  window  and  stood  leaning  against  a  corner  of  it. 
There,  with  his  face  toward  the  wall,  he  seemed  to  be 
estimating  its  thickness,  keeping  his  body  in  such  ab- 
solute immobility  that  he  might  have  been  taken  for  a 
statue.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  the  countess  be- 
held a  short,  stout  man,  apparently  out  of  breath  and 
stupefied,  whose  eyes  were  bliudfolded  and  his  features 
so  distorted  with  terror  that  it  was  impossible  to  guess 
at  their  natural  expression. 

"  God's  death  !  you  scamp,"  said  the  count,  giving 
him  back  his  eyesight  by  a  rough  movement  whicli 
threw  upon  the  man's  neck  the  bandage  that  had  been 
upon  his  eyes.  "  I  warn  }tou  not  to  look  at  anything 
but  the  wretched  woman  on  whom  you  are  now  to  ex- 
ercise your  skill ;    if  you  do,    I  '11  fling  you  into  the 


328  The  Hated  Son. 

river  that  flows  beneath  those  windows,  with  a  collar 
round  your  neck  weighing  a  hundred  pounds!  ' 

With  that,  he  pulled  down  upon  the  breast  of  his 
stupefied  hearer  the  cravat  with  which  his  eyes  had 
been  bandaged. 

"  Examine  first  if  this  can  be  a  miscarriage,"  he 
continued  ;  "  in  which  case  your  life  will  answer  to  me 
for  the  mother's  ;  but,  if  the  child  is  living,  you  are  to 
bring  it  to  me." 

So  sa}7ing,  the  count  seized  the  poor  operator  by  the 
body  and  placed  him  before  the  countess,  then  he  went 
himself  to  the  depths  of  a  bay-window  and  began  to 
drum  with  his  fingers  upon  the  panes,  casting  glances 
alternately  on  his  serving-man,  on  the  bed,  and  at  the 
ocean,  as  if  he  were  pledging  to  the  expected  child  a 
cradle  in  the  waves. 

The  man  wrhom,  with  outrageous  violence,  the  count 
and  Bertrand  had  snatched  from  his  bed  and  fastened 
to  the  crupper  of  the  latter's  horse,  was  a  personage 
whose  individuality  may  serve  to  characterize  the 
period, — a  man,  moreover,  wrhose  influence  was  des- 
tined to  make  itself  felt  in  the  house  of  Herouville. 

Never  in  any  age  were  the  nobles  so  little  informed 
as  to  natural  science,  and  never  was  judicial  astrology 
held  in  greater  honor ;  for  at  no  period  in  history  was 
there  a  greater  general  desire  to  know  the  future. 
This  ignorance  and  this  curiosity  had  led  to  the  ut- 
most confusion  in  human  knowledge  ;  all  things  were 
still  mere  personal  experience ;  the  nomenclatures  of 
theory  did  not  exist ;  printing  was  done  at  enormous 
cost ;  scientific  communication  had  little  or  no  facility  ; 
the  Church  persecuted  science  and  all  research  which 


The  Hated  Son.  329 

was  based  on  the  analysis  of  natural  phenomena. 
Persecution  begat  mystery.  So,  to  the  people  as  well 
as  to  the  nobles,  physician  and  alchemist,  mathema- 
tician and  astronomer,  astrologer  and  necromancer 
were  six  attributes,  all  meeting  in  the  single  person 
of  the  physician.  In  those  days  a  superior  physician 
was  supposed  to  be  cultivating  magic ;  while  curing 
his  patient  he  was  drawing  their  horoscopes.  Princes 
protected  the  men  of  genius  who  were  willing  to  re- 
veal the  future ;  they  lodged  them  in  their  palaces  and 
pensioned  them.  The  famous  Cornelius  Agrippa,  who 
came  to  France  to  become  the  physician  of  Henri  II., 
would  not  consent,  as  Nostradamus  did,  to  predict 
the  future,  and  for  this  reason  he  was  dismissed  by 
Catherine  de'  Medici,  who  replaced  him  with  Cosmo 
Ruggiero.  The  men  of  science,  who  were  superior  to 
their  times,  were  therefore  seldom  appreciated ;  they 
simply  inspired  an  ignorant  fear  of  occult  sciences  and 
their  results. 

Without  being  precisely  one  of  the  famous  mathe- 
maticians,- the  man  whom  the  count  had  brought  en- 
joyed in  Normandy  the  equivocal  reputation  which 
attached  to  a  physician  who  was  known  to  do  mysteri- 
ous works.  He  belonged  to  the  class  of  sorcerers  who 
are  still  called  in  certain  parts  of  France  bonesetters. 
This  name  belonged  to  certain  untutored  geniuses 
who,  without  apparent  study,  but  by  means  of  heredi- 
tary knowledge  and  the  effect  of  long  practice,  the  ob- 
servations of  which  accumulated  in  the  family,  were 
bonesetters;  that  is,  they  mended  broken  limbs  and 
cured  both  men  and  beasts  of  certain  maladies,  pos- 
sessing secrets  said  to  be  marvellous  for  the  treatment 


330  The  Hated  Son. 

of  serious  cases.  But  not  only  had  Maitre  Antoine 
Beauvouloir  (the  name  of  the  present  bonesetter)  a 
father  and  grandfather  who  were  famous  practitioners, 
from  whom  he  inherited  important  traditions,  he  was 
also  learned  in  medicine,  and  was  given  to  the  study 
of  natural  science.  The  country  people  saw  his  study 
full  of  books  and  other  strange  things  which  gave  to 
his  successes  a  coloring  of  magic.  Without  passing 
strictly  for  a  sorcerer,  Antoine  Beauvouloir  impressed 
the  populace  through  a  circumference  of  a  hundred 
miles  with  respect  akin  to  terror,  and  (what  was  far 
more  really  dangerous  for  himself)  he  held  in  his  power 
many  secrets  of  life  and  death  which  concerned  the 
noble  families  of  that  region.  Like  his  father  and 
grandfather  before  him,  he  was  celebrated  for  his  skill 
in  confinements  and  miscarriages.  In  those  days  of 
unbridled  disorder,  crimes  were  so  frequent  and  pas- 
sions so  violent  that  the  higher  nobility  often  found 
itself  compelled  to  initiate  Maitre  Antoine  Beauvouloir 
into  secrets  both  shameful  and  terrible.  His  discre- 
tion, so  essential  to  his  safety,  was  absolute  ;  conse- 
quently his  clients  paid  him  well,  and  his  hereditary 
practice  greatly  increased.  Always  on  the  road,  some- 
times roused  in  the  dead  of  night,  as  on  this  occasion 
by  the  count,  sometimes  obliged  to  spend  several  days 
with  certain  great  ladies,  he  had  never  married ;  in 
fact,  his  reputation  had  hindered  certain  young  women 
from  accepting  him.  Incapable  of  finding  consolation 
in  the  practice  of  his  profession,  which  gave  him  such 
power  over  feminine  weakness,  the  poor  bonesetter  felt 
himself  born  for  the  joys  of  family  and  yet  was  unable 
to  obtain  them. 


The  Hated  Son.  331 

The  good  man's  excellent  heart  was  concealed  by  a 
misleading  appearance  of  joviality  in  keeping  with  his 
puffy  cheeks  and  rotund  figure,  the  vivacity  of  his  fat 
little  body,  and  the  frankness  of  his  speech.  He  was 
anxious  to  marry  that  he  might  have  a  daughter  who 
should  transfer  his  property  to  some  poor  noble ;  he 
did  not  like  his  station  as  bonesetter  and  wished  to 
rescue  his  family  name  from  the  position  in  which  the 
prejudices  of  the  times  had  placed  it.  He  himself 
took  willingly  enough  to  the  feasts  and  jovialities 
which  usually  followed  his  principal  operations.  The 
habit  of  being  on  such  occasions  the  most  impor- 
tant personage  in  the  company,  had  added  to  his  nat- 
ural gayety  a  sufficient  dose  of  serious  vanity.  His 
impertinences  were  usually  well  received  in  crucial 
moments  when  it  often  pleased  him  to  perform  his 
operations  with  a  certain  slow  majesty.  He  was,  in 
other  respects,  as  inquisitive  as  a  nightingale,  as  greedy 
as  a  hound,  and  as  garrulous  as  all  diplomatists  who 
talk  incessantly  and  betray  no  secrets.  In  spite  of 
these  defects  developed  in  him  by  the  endless  ad- 
ventures into  which  his  profession  led  him,  Antoine 
Beauvouloir  was  held  to  be  the  least  bad  man  in  Nor- 
mandy. Though  he  belonged  to  the  small  number  of 
minds  who  are  superior  to  their  epoch,  the  strong 
good  sense  of  a  Norman  countryman  warned  him  to 
conceal  the  ideas  he  acquired  and  the  truths  he  from 
time  to  time  discovered. 

As  soon  as  he  found  himself  placed  by  the  count  in 
presence  of  a  woman  in  childbirth,  the  bonesetter  re- 
covered his  presence  of  mind.  He  felt  the  pulse  of 
the  masked  lady ;  not  that  he  gave  it  a  single  thought, 


332  The  Hated  Son. 

but  under  cover  of  that  medical  action  he  could  reflect, 
and  he  did  reflect  on  his  own  situation.  In  none  of 
the  shameful  and  criminal  intrigues  in  which  superior 
force  had  compelled  him  to  act  as  a  blind  instrument, 
had  precautions  been  taken  with  such  mystery  as  in 
this  case.  Though  his  death  had  often  been  threat- 
ened as  a  means  of  assuring  the  secrecy  of  enterprises 
in  which  he  had  taken  part  against  his  will,  his  life 
had  never  been  so  endangered  as  at  that  moment. 
He  resolved,  before  all  things,  to  find  out  who  it  was 
who  now  employed  him,  and  to  discover  the  actual  ex- 
tent of  his  danger,  in  order  to  save,  if  possible,  his 
own  little  person. 

"  What  is  the  trouble  ?  "  he  said  to  the  countess  in  a  low 
voice,  as  he  placed  her  in  a  manner  to  receive  his  help. 

"  Do  not  give  him  the  child  —  " 

"  Speak  loud !  "  cried  the  count  in  thundering  tones 
which  prevented  Beauvouloir  from  hearing  the  last 
word  uttered  by  the  countess.  "If  not,"  added  the 
count  who  was  careful  to  disguise  his  voice,  "  say  your 
In  inanus." 

"  Complain  aloud,"  said  the  leech  to  the  lady  ;  "  cry  ! 
scream!  Jarnidieu!  that  man  has  a  necklace  that 
won't  fit  you  any  better  than  me.  Courage,  my  little 
lady !  " 

"  Touch  her  lightly  !  "  cried  the  count. 

"Monsieur  is  jealous,"  said  the  operator  in  a  shrill 
voice,  fortunately  drowned  by  the  countess's  cries. 

For  Maitre  Beauvouloir's  safety  Nature  was  merci- 
ful. It  was  more  a  miscarriage  than  a  regular  birth, 
and  the  child  was  so  puny  that  it  caused  little  suffering 
to  the  mother. 


The  Hated  Son.  333 

"Holy  Virgin!"  cried  the  bonesetter,  "it  isn't  a 
miscarriage,  after  all !  " 

The  count  made  the  floor  shake  as  he  stamped  with 
rage.     The  countess  pinched  Beauvouloir. 

"Ah!  I  see!"  he  said  to  himself.  "It  ought  to 
be  a  premature  birth,  ought  it?  "  he  whispered  to  the 
countess,  who  replied  with  an  affirmative  sign,  as  if 
that  gesture  were  the  only  language  in  which  to  ex- 
press her  thoughts. 

"  It  is  not  all  clear  to  me  yet,"  thought  the  bonesetter. 

Like  all  men  in  constant  practice,  he  recognized 
at  once  a  woman  in  her  first  trouble  as  he  called  it. 
Though  the  modest  inexperience  of  certain  gestures 
showed  him  the  virgin  ignorance  of  the  countess,  the 
mischievous  operator  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Madame  is  delivered  as  if  she  knew  all  about  it  !  " 

The  count  then  said,  with  a  calmness  more  terrifying 
than  his  anger  :  — 

"  Give  me  the  child." 

"  Don't  give  it  him,  for  the  love  of  God !  "  cried  the 
mother,  whose  almost  savage  cry  awoke  in  the  heart 
of  the  little  man  a  courageous  pity  which  attached  him, 
more  than  he  knew  himself,  to  the  helpless  infant  re- 
jected by  his  father. 

"  The  child  is  not  }Tet  born  ;  you  are  counting  your 
chicken  before  it  is  hatched,"  he  said,  coldly,  hiding 
the  infant. 

Surprised  to  hear  no  cries,  he  examined  the  child, 
thinking  it  dead.  The  count,  seeing  the  deception, 
sprang  upon  him  with  one  bound. 

"  God  of  heaven  !  will  you  give  it  to  me?  "  he  cried, 
snatching  the  hapless  victim  which  uttered  feeble  cries. 


334  The  Hated  Son. 

"  Take  care  ;  the  child  is  deformed  and  almost  life- 
less ;  it  is  a  seven  months'  child,"  said  Beauvouloir 
clinging  to  the  count's  arm.  Then,  with  a  strength 
given  to  him  by  the  excitement  of  his  pity,  he  clung 
to  the  father's  fingers,  whispering  in  a  broken  voice : 
"  Spare  yourself  a  crime,  the  child  cannot  live." 

"  Wretch !  "  replied  the  count,  from  whose  hands 
the  bonesetter  had  wrenched  the  child,  "  who  told  you 
that  I  wished  to  kill  my  son?     Could  I  not  caress  it?'! 

"  Wait  till  he  is  eighteen  years  old  to  caress  him  in 
that  way,"  replied  Beauvouloir,  recovering  the  sense 
of  his  importance.  "  But,"  he  added,  thinking  of  his 
own  safety,  for  he  had  recognized  the  Comte  d'  Herou- 
ville,  who  in  his  rage  had  forgotten  to  disguise  his  voice, 
"  have  him  baptized  at  once  and  do  not  speak  of  his 
danger  to  the  mother,  or  you  will  kill  her." 

The  gesture  of  satisfaction  which  escaped  the  count 
when  the  child's  death  was  prophesied,  suggested  this 
speech  to  the  bonesetter  as  the  best  means  of  saving 
the  child  at  the  moment.  Beauvouloir  now  hastened 
to  carry  the  infant  back  to  its  mother  who  had  fainted, 
and  he  pointed  to  her  condition  reprovingly,  to  warn 
the  count  of  the  results  of  his  violence.  The  countess 
had  heard  all ;  for  in  many  of  the  great  crises  of  life 
the  human  organs  acquire  an  otherwise  unknown  deli- 
cacy. But  the  cries  of  the  child,  laid  beside  her  on 
the  bed,  restored  her  to  life  as  if  by  magic;  she  fan- 
cied she  heard  the  voices  of  angels,  when,  under  cover 
of  the  whimperings  of  the  babe,  the  bonesetter  said  in 
her  ear :  — 

"  Take  care  of  him,  and  he  '11  live  a  hundred  years. 
Beauvouloir  knows  what  he  is  talking  about." 


The  Hated  Son.  335 

A  celestial  sigh,  a  silent  pressure  of  the  hand  were 
the  reward  of  the  leech,  who  had  looked  to  see,  before 
yeilding  the  frail  little  creature  to  its  mother's  embrace, 
whether  that  of  the  father  had  done  no  harm  to  its 
puny  organization.  The  half-crazed  motion  with  which 
the  mother  hid  her  son  beside  her  and  the  threatening 
glance  she  cast  upon  the  count  through  the  eye-holes 
of  her  mask,  made  Beauvouloir  shudder. 

"  She  will  die  if  she  loses  that  child  too  soon,"  he 
said  to  the  count. 

During  the  latter  part  of  this  scene  the  lord  of 
Herouville  seemed  to  hear  and  see  nothing.  Rigid, 
and  as  if  absorbed  in  meditation,  he  stood  by  the 
window  drumming  on  its  panes.  But  he  turned  at 
the  last  words  uttered  by  the  bonesetter,  with  an  al- 
most frenzied  motion,  and  came  to  him  with  uplifted 
dagger. 

"Miserable  clown!"  he  cried,  giving  him  the  op- 
probrious name  by  which  the  Royalists  insulted  the 
Leaguers.  "  Impudent  scoundrel !  your  science  which 
makes  you  the  accomplice  of  men  who  steal  inheritances 
is  all  that  prevents  me  from  depriving  Normandy  of 
her  sorcerer." 

So  saying,  and  to  Beauvouloir's  great  satisfaction, 
the  count  replaced  the  dagger  in  its  sheath. 

u  Could  you  not,"  continued  the  count,  "  find  your- 
self for  once  in  your  life  in  the  honorable  company  of 
a  noble  and  his  wife,  without  suspecting  them  of  the 
base  crimes  and  trickery  of  your  own  kind  ?  Kill  my 
son !  take  him  from  his  mother !  Where  did  you  get 
such  crazy  ideas?  Am  I  a  madman?  Why  do  you 
attempt  to  frighten  me  about  the  life  of  that  vigorous 


336  The  Hated  Son. 

child?  Fool!  I  defy  your  silly  talk  —  but  remember 
this,  since  you  are  here,  your  miserable  life  shall  an- 
swer for  that  of  the  mother  and  the  child." 

The  bonesetter  was  puzzled  by  this  sudden  change 
in  the  count's  intentions.  This  show  of  tenderness  for 
the  infant  alarmed  him  far  more  than  the  impatient 
cruelty  and  savage  indifference  hitherto  manifested  by 
the  count,  whose  tone  in  pronouncing  the  last  words 
seemed  to  Beauvouloir  to  point  to  some  better  scheme 
for  reaching  his  infernal  ends.  The  shrewd  practi- 
tioner turned  this  idea  over  in  his  mind  until  a  light 
struck  him. 

"  I  have  it!  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  This  great  and 
good  noble  does  not  want  to  make  himself  odious  to 
his  wife  ;  he  '11  trust  to  the  vials  of  the  apothecary.  I 
must  warn  the  lady  to  see  to  the  food  and  medicine  of 
her  babe." 

As  he  turned  toward  the  bed,  the  count  who  had 
opened  a  closet,  stopped  him  with  an  imperious  ges- 
ture, holding  out  a  purse.  Beauvouloir  saw  within  its 
red  silk  meshes  a  quantity  of  gold,  which  the  count 
now  flung  to  him  contemptuously. 

'*  Though  you  make  me  out  a  villain  I  am  not  re- 
leased from  the  obligation  of  paying  you  like  a  lord. 
I  shall  not  ask  you  to  be  discreet.  This  man  here," 
(pointing  to  Bertrand)  "will  explain  to  you  that  there 
are  rivers  and  trees  everywhere  for  miserable  wretches 
who  chatter  of  me." 

So  saying  the  count  advanced  slowly  to  the  bone- 
setter,  pushed  a  chair  noisily  toward  him,  as  if  to  in- 
vite him  to  sit  down,  as  he  did  himself  by  the  bedside ; 
then  he  said  to  his  wife  in  a  specious  voice :  — 


The  Hated  Son.  337 


(i 


"Well,  my  pretty  one,  so  we  have  a  son  ;  this  is  a 
joyful  thing  for  us.     Do  you  suffer  much?  " 

"  No,"  murmured  the  countess. 

The  evident  surprise  of  the  mother,  and  the  tardy 
demonstrations  of  pleasure  on  the  part  of  the  father, 
convinced  Beauvouloir  that  there  was  some  incident 
behind  all  this  which  escaped  his  penetration.  He 
persisted  in  his  suspicions,  and  rested  his  hand  on  that 
of  the  young  wife,  less  to  watch  her  condition  than  to 
convey  to  her  some  advice. 

"The  skin  is  good,  I  fear  nothing  for  madame. 
The  milk  fever  will  come,  of  course ;  but  you  need  not 
be  alarmed  ;  that  is  nothing." 

At  this  point  the  wily  bonesetter  paused,  and  pressed 
the  hand  of  the  countess  to  make  her  attentive  to  his 
words. 

"  If  you  wish  to  avoid  all  anxiety  about  your  son, 
madame,"  he  continued,  "never  leave  him;  suckle 
him  yourself,  and  beware  of  the  drugs  of  apothecaries. 
The  mother's  breast  is  the  remedy  for  all  the  ills  of 
infancy.  I  have  seen  many  births  of  seven  months' 
children,  but  I  never  saw  any  so  little  painful  as  this. 
But  that  is  not  surprising  ;  the  child  is  so  small.  You 
could  put  him  in  a  wooden  shoe  !  I  am  certain  he 
does  n't  weigh  more  than  sixteen  ounces.  Milk,  milk, 
milk.  Keep  him  always  on  your  breast  and  you  will 
save  him." 

These  last  words  were  accompanied  by  a  significant 
pressure  of  the  fingers.  Disregarding  the  yellow  flames 
flashing  from  the  eyeholes  of  the  count's  mask,  Beau- 
vouloir uttered  these  words  with  the  serious  impertur- 
bability of  a  man  who  intends  to  earn  his  money. 

22 


338  The  Hated  Son. 

■ 

"  Ho  !  bo  !  bonesetter,  you  are  leaving  your  old  felt 
hat  behind  you,"  said  Bertrand,  as  the  two  left  the 
bedroom  together. 

The  reasons  of  the  sudden  mercy  which  the  count 
had  shown  to  his  son  were  to  be  found  in  a  notary's 
office.  At  the  moment  when  Beauvouloir  arrested  his 
murderous  hand  avarice  and  the  Legal  Custom  of  Nor- 
mandy rose  up  before  him.  Those  mighty  powers 
stiffened  his  fingers  and  silenced  the  passion  of  his 
hatred.  One  cried  out  to  him,  "  The  property  of  your 
wife  cannot  belong  to  the  house  of  Herouville  except 
through  a  male  child."  The  other  pointed  to  a  dying 
countess  and  her  fortune  claimed  by  the  collateral 
heirs  of  the  Saint-Savins.  Both  advised  him  to  leave 
to  nature  the  extinction  of  that  hated  child,  and  to 
wait  the  birth  of  a  second  son  who  might  be  healthy 
and  vigorous  before  getting  rid  of  his  wife  and  first- 
born. He  saw  neither  wife  nor  child ;  he  saw  the 
estates  only,  and  hatred  was  softened  by  ambition. 
The  mother,  who  knew  his  nature,  was  even  more 
surprised  than  the  bonesetter,  and  she  still  retained 
her  instinctive  fears,  showing  them  at  times  openly, 
for  the  courage  of  mothers  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
doubled  her  strength. 


The  Hated  Son.  339 


III. 


THE    MOTHER'S    LOVE. 


For  several  days  the  count  remained  assiduously 
beside  his  wife,  showing  her  attentions  to  which  self- 
interest  imparted  a  sort  of  tenderness.  The  countess 
saw,  however,  that  she  alone  was  the  object  of  these 
attentions.  The  hatred  of  the  father  for  his  son  showed 
itself  in  every  detail ;  he  abstained  from  looking  at 
him  or  touching  him ;  he  would  rise  abruptly  and 
leave  the  room  if  the  child  cried ;  in  short,  he  seemed 
to  endure  it  living  only  through  the  hope  of  seeing  it 
die.  But  even  this  self-restraint  was  galling  to  the 
count.  The  day  on  wiiich  he  saw  that  the  mother's 
intelligent  e}Te  perceived,  without  fully  comprehending, 
the  danger  that  threatened  her  son,  he  announced  his 
departure  on  the  morning  after  the  mass  for  her  church- 
ing was  solemnized,  under  pretext  of  rallying  his  forces 
to  the  support  of  the  king. 

Such  were  the  circumstances  which  preceded  and 
accompanied  the  birth  of  Etienne  d'Herouville.  If 
the  count  had  no  other  reason  for  wishing  the  death  of 
this  disowned  son  poor  Etienne  would  still  have  been 
the  object  of  his  aversion.  In  his  eyes  the  misfortune 
of  a  rickety,  sickly  constitution  was  a  flagrant  offence 
to  his  self-love  as  a  father.  If  he  execrated  handsome 
men,  he  also  detested  weakly  ones,  in  whom  mental 
capacity   took    the    place    of    physical    strength.      To 


340  The  Hated  Son. 

please  him  a  man  should  be  ngly  in  face,  tall,  robust, 
and  ignorant.  Etienue,  whose  debility  would  bow 
him,  as  it  wrere,  to  the  sedentary  occupations  of  knowl- 
edge, was  certain  to  find  in  his  father  a  natural  enemy. 
His  struggle  with  that  colossus  began  therefore  from 
his  cradle,  and  his  sole  support  against  that  cruel  antag- 
onist was  the  heart  of  his  mother  whose  love  increased, 
by  a  tender  law  of  nature,  as  perils  threatened  him. 

Buried  in  solitude  after  the  abrupt  departure  of  the 
count,  Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin  owed  to  her  child  the  only 
semblance  of  happiness  that  consoled  her  life.  She 
loved  him  as  women  love  the  child  of  an  illicit  love ; 
obliged  to  suckle  him,  the  duty  never  wearied  her. 
She  would  not  let  her  women  care  for  the  child.  She 
dressed  and  undressed  him,  finding  fresh  pleasures  in 
every  little  care  that  he  required.  Happiness  glowed 
upon  her  face  as  she  obeyed  the  needs  of  the  little 
being.  As  Etienne  had  come  into  the  world  prema- 
turely,  no  clothes  were  ready  for  him,  and  those  that 
were  needed  she  made  herself,  —  with  what  perfec- 
tion, you  know,  ye  mothers,  who  have  worked  in 
silence  for  a  treasured  child.  The  days  had  never 
hours  enough  for  these  manifold  occupations  and  the 
minute  precautions  of  the  nursing  mother ;  those  days 
fled  by,  laden  with  her  secret  content. 

The  counsel  of  the  bonesetter  still  continued  in  the 
countess's  mind.  She  feared  for  her  child,  and  would 
gladly  not  have  slept  in  order  to  be  sure  that  no  one 
approached  him  during  her  sleep ;  and  she  kept  his 
cradle  beside  her  bed.  In  the  absence  of  the  count 
she  ventured  to  send  for  the  bonesetter,  whose  name 
she  had  caught  and  remembered.     To  her,  Beauvouloir 


The  Rated  Son.  341 

was  a  being  to  whom  she  owed  an  untold  debt  of  grati- 
tude ;  and  she  desired  of  all  things  to  question  him  on 
certain  points  relating  to  her  son.  If  an  attempt  were 
made  to  poison  him,  how  should  she  foil  it?  In  what 
way  ought  she  to  manage  his  frail  constitution?  Was 
it  well  to  nurse  him  long?  If  she  died,  would  Beau- 
vouloir  undertake  the  care  of  the  poor  child's  health? 

To  the  questions  of  the  countess,  Beauvouloir,  deeply 
touched,  replied  that  he  feared,  as  much  as  she  did, 
an  attempt  to  poison  Etienne ;  but  there  was,  he  as- 
sured her,  no  danger  so  long  as  she  nursed  the  child ; 
and  in  future,  when  obliged  to  feed  him,  she  must 
taste  the  food  herself. 

"If  Madame  la  comtesse,"  he  said,  "feels  any- 
thing strange  upon  her  tongue,  a  prickly,  bitter,  strong 
salt  taste,  reject  the  food.  Let  the  child's  clothes  be 
washed  under  her  own  eye  and  let  her  keep  the  key 
of  the  chest  which  contains  them.  Should  anything 
happen  to  the  child  send  instantly  to  me." 

These  instructions  sank  deep  into  Jeanne's  heart. 
She  begged  Beauvouloir  to  regard  her  always  as  one 
who  would  do  him  any  service  in  her  power.  On  that 
the  poor  man  told  her  that  she  held  his  happiness  in 
her  hands. 

Then  he  related  briefly  how  the  Comte  d'  Herouville 
had  in  his  youth  loved  a  courtesan,  known  by  the 
name  of  La  Belle  Romaine,  who  had  formerly  belonged 
to  the  Cardinal  of  Lorraine.  Abandoned  by  the  count 
before  very  long,  she  had  died  miserably,  leaving  a 
child  named  Gertrude,  who  had  been  rescued  by  the 
Sisters  of  the  Convent  of  Poor  Clares,  the  Mother 
Superior  of  which  was  Mademoiselle  de   Saint-Savin, 


342  The  Hated  Son. 

the  countess's  aunt.  Having  been  called  to  treat  Ger- 
trude for  an  illness,  he,  Beauvouloir,  had  fallen  in  love 
with  her,  and  if  Madame  la  comtesse,  he  said,  would 
undertake  the  affair,  she  would  not  only  more  than  re- 
pay him  for  what  she  thought  he  had  done  for  her, 
but  she  would  make  him  grateful  to  her  for  life.  The 
count  might,  sooner  or  later,  be  brought  to  take  an 
interest  in  so  beautiful  a  daughter,  and  might  protect 
her  indirectly  by  making  him  his  physician. 

The  countess,  compassionate  to  all  true  love,  prom- 
ised to  do  her  best,  and  pursued  the  affair  so  warmly 
that  at  the  birth  of  her  second  son  she  did  obtain  from 
her  husband  a  dot  for  the  young  girl,  who  was  married 
soon  after  to  Beauvouloir.  The  dot  and  his  savings 
enabled  the  bonesetter  to  buy  a  charming  estate  called 
Forcalier  near  the  castle  of  Herouville,  and  to  give  his 
life  the  dignity  of  a  student  and  man  of  learning. 

Comforted  by  the  kind  physician,  the  countess  felt 
that  to  her  were  given  joys  unknown  to  other  mothers. 
Mother  and  child,  two  feeble  beings,  seemed  united  in 
one  thought,  they  understood  each  other  long  before 
language  could  interpret  between  them.  From  the 
moment  when  Etienne  first  turned  his  eyes  on  things 
about  him  with  the  stupid  eagerness  of  a  little  child, 
his  glance  had  rested  on  the  sombre  hangings  of  the 
castle  walls.  When  his  young  ear  strove  to  listen 
and  to  distinguish  sounds,  he  heard  the  monotonous 
ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea  upon  the  rocks,  as  regular  as 
the  swinging  of  a  pendulum.  Thus  places,  sounds, 
and  things,  all  that  strikes  the  senses  and  forms  the 
character,  inclined  him  to  melancholy.  His  mother, 
too,  was  doomed  to  live  and  die  in  the  clouds  of  mel- 


The  Hated  Son.  343 

ancholy  ;  and  to  him,  from  his  birth  up,  she  was  the 
only  being  that  existed  on  the  earth  and  filled  for  him 
the  desert.  Like  all  frail  children,  Etienne's  attitude 
was  passive,  and  in  that  he  resembled  his  mother.  The 
delicacy  of  his  organs  was  such  that  a  sudden  noise,  or 
the  presence  of  a  boisterous  person  gave  him  a  sort  of 
fever.  He  was  like  those  little  insects  for  whom  God 
seems  to  temper  the  violence  of  the  wind  and  the  heat 
of  the  sun ;  incapable,  like  them,  of  struggling  against 
the  slightest  obstacle,  he  yielded,  as  they  do,  without 
resistance  or  complaint,  to  everything  that  seemed  to 
him  aggressive.  This  angelic  patience  inspired  in  the 
mother  a  sentiment  which  took  away  all  fatigue  from 
the  incessant  care  required  by  so  frail  a  being. 

Soon  his  precocious  perception  of  suffering  revealed 
to  him  the  power  that  he  had  upon  his  mother ;  often 
he  tried  to  divert  her  with  caresses  and  make  her 
smile  at  his  play  ;  and  never  did  his  coaxing  hands, 
his  stammered  words,  his  intelligent  laugh  fail  to  rouse 
her  from  her  revery.  If  he  was  tired,  his  care  for  her 
kept  him  from  complaining. 

"Poor,  dear,  little  sensitive  !"  cried  the  countess  as 
he  fell  asleep  tired  with  some  play  which  had  driven 
the  sad  memories  from  her  mind,  "  how  can  you  live 
in  this  world?  who  will  understand  you?  who  will  love 
you?  who  will  see  the  treasures  hidden  in  that  frail 
body?     No  one  !     Like  me,  you  are  alone  on  earth." 

She  sighed  and  wept.  The  graceful  pose  of  her 
child  lying  on  her  knees  made  her  smile  sadly.  She 
looked  at  him  long,  tasting  one  of  those  pleasures 
which  are  a  secret  between  mothers  and  God.  Etienne's 
weakness  was  so  great  that  until  he  was  a  year  and  a 


344  The  Hated  Son. 

half  old  she  had  never  dared  to  take  him  out  of  doors ; 
but  now  the  faint  color  which  tinted  the  whiteness  of 
his  skin  like  the  petals  of  a  wild  rose,  showed  that  life 
and  health  were  already  there. 

One  morning  the  countess,  giving  herself  up  to  the 
glad  joy  of  all  mothers  when  their  lirst  child  walks  for 
the  first  time,  was  playing  with  Etienne  on  the  floor 
when  suddenly  she  heard  the  heavy  step  of  a  man 
upon  the  boards.  Hardly  had  she  risen  with  a  move- 
ment of  involuntary  surprise,  when  the  count  stood 
before  her.  She  gave  a  cry,  but  endeavored  instantly 
to  undo  that  involuntary  wrong  by  going  up  to  him 
and  offering  her  forehead  for  a  kiss. 

"Why  not  have  sent  me  notice  of  your  return?" 
she  said. 

"  My  reception  would  have  been  more  cordial,  but 
less  frank,"  he  answered  bitterly. 

Suddenly  he  saw  the  child.  The  evident  health  in 
which  he  found  it  wrung  from  him  a  gesture  of  sur- 
prise mingled  with  fury.  But  he  repressed  his  anger, 
and  began  to  smile. 

"1  bring  good  news,"  he  said.  "I  have  received 
the  governorship  of  Champagne  and  the  king's  prom- 
ise to  be  made  duke  and  peer.  Moreover,  we  have 
inherited  a  princely  fortune  from  your  cousin ;  that 
cursed  Huguenot,  Georges  de  Chaverny  is  killed." 

The  countess  turned  pale  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 
She  saw  the  secret  of  the  devilish  smile  on  her  hus- 
band's face. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  said  in  a  voice  of  emotion,  "  you 
know  well  that  I  loved  my  cousin  Chaverny.  You 
will  answer  to  God  for  the  pain  you  inflict  upon  me." 


The  Hated  Son.  345 

At  these  words  the  eye  of  the  count  glittered ;  his 
lips  trembled,  but  he  could  not  utter  a  word,  so  furious 
was  he ;  he  flung  his  dagger  on  the  table  with  such 
violence  that  the  metal  resounded  like  a  thunder-clap. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said  in  his  strongest  voice, 
"  and  remember  my  words.  I  will  never  see  or  hear 
the  little  monster  you  hold  in  your  arms.  He  is  your 
child,  and  not  mine  ;  there  is  nothing  of  me  in  him. 
Hide  him,  I  say,  hide  him  from  my  sight,  or —  " 

"  Just  God  !  "  cried  the  countess,  "  protect  us  !  " 

"Silence!"  said  her  husband.  "If  you  do  not 
wish  me  to  throttle  him,  see  that  I  never  find  him  in 
my  way." 

"Then,"  said  the  countess  gathering  strength  to 
oppose  her  tyrant,  "  swear  to  me  that  if  you  never 
meet  him  you  will  do  nothing  to  injure  him.  Can  I 
trust  your  word  as  a  nobleman  for  that?  " 

"  What  does  all  this  mean?  "  said  the  count. 

"If  you  will  not  swear,  kill  us  now  together!" 
cried  the  countess,  falling  on  her  knees  and  pressing 
her  child  to  her  breast. 

"  Rise,  madame.  I  give  you  my  word  as  a  man  of 
honor  to  do  nothing  against  the  life  of  that  cursed 
child,  provided  he  lives  among  the  rocks  between  the 
sea  and  the  house,  and  never  crosses  my  path.  I  will 
give  him  that  fisherman's  house  down  there  for  his 
dwelling,  and  the  beach  for  a  domain.  But  woe  be- 
tide him  if  I  ever  find  him  beyond  those  limits." 

The  countess  began  to  weep. 

"  Look  at  him  !  "  she  said.     "  He  is  your  son." 

"  Madame !  " 

At  that  word,   the  frightened  mother  carried  away 


346  The  Hated  Son. 

the  child  whose  heart  was  beating  like  that  of  a  bird 
caught  in  its  nest.  Whether  innocence  has  a  power 
which  the  hardest  men  cannot  escape,  or  whether  the 
count  regretted  his  violence  and  feared  to  plunge  into 
despair  a  creature  so  necessary  to  his  pleasures  and 
also  to  his  worldly  prosperity,  it  is  certain  that  his 
voice  was  as  soft  as  it  was  possible  to  make  it  when 
his  wife  returned. 

44  Jeanne,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  do  not  be  angry  with 
me ;  give  me  your  hand.  One  never  knows  how  to 
treat  you  women.  I  return,  bringing  you  fresh  honors 
and  more  wealth,  and  yet,  tete-Dieu!  you  receive  me 
like  an  enemy.  My  new  government  will  oblige  me 
to  make  long  absences  until  I  can  exchange  it  for  that 
of  Lower  Normandy ;  and  I  request,  my  dear,  that 
you  will  show  me  a  pleasant  face  while  I  am  here." 

The  countess  understood  the  meaning  of  the  words, 
the  feigned  softness  of  wrhich  could  no  longer  deceive 
her. 

"  I  know  my  duty,"  she  replied  in  a  tone  of  sadness 
which  the  count  mistook  for  tenderness. 

The  timid  creature  had  too  much  purity  and  dignity 
to  try,  as  some  clever  women  would  have  done,  to 
govern  the  count  by  putting  calculation  into  her  con- 
duct, —  a  sort  of  prostitution  by  which  noble  souls  feel 
degraded.  Silently  she  turned  away,  to  console  her 
despair  with  Etienne. 

"  Tete-Dieu!  shall  I  never  be  loved?"  cried  the 
count,  seeing  the  tears  in  his  wife's  eyes  as  she  left  the 
room. 

Thus  incessantly  threatened,  motherhood  became  to 
the  poor  woman  a  passion  which  assumed  the  intensity 


The  Hated  Son.  347 

that  women  put  into  their  guilty  affections.  By  a 
a  species  of  occult  communion,  the  secret  of  which  is 
in  the  hearts  of  mothers,  the  child  comprehended  the 
peril  that  threatened  him  and  dreaded  the  approach  of 
his  father.  The  terrible  scene  of  which  he  had  been  a 
witness  remained  in  his  memory,  and  affected  him  like 
an  illness  ;  at  the  sound  of  the  count's  step  his  features 
contracted,  and  the  mother's  ear  was  not  so  alert  as 
the  instinct  of  her  child.  As  he  grew  older  this  fac- 
ulty created  by  terror  increased,  until,  like  the  sav- 
ages of  America,  Etienne  could  distinguish  his  father's 
step  and  hear  his  voice  at  immense  distances.  To 
witness  the  terror  with  which  the  count  inspired  her 
thus  shared  by  her  child  made  Etienne  the  more  pre- 
cious to  the  countess  ;  their  union  was  so  strengthened 
that  like  two  flowers  on  one  twig  they  bent  to  the  same 
wind,  and  lifted  their  heads  with  the  same  hope.  In 
short,  they  were  one  life. 

When  the  count  again  left  home  Jeanne  was  preg- 
nant. This  time  she  gave  birth  in  due  season,  and 
not  without  great  suffering,  to  a  stout  boy,  who  soon 
became  the  living  image  of  his  father,  so  that  the 
hatred  of  the  count  for  his  first-born  was  increased  by 
this  event.  To  save  her  cherished  child  the  countess 
agreed  to  all  the  plans  which  her  husband  formed  for 
the  happiness  and  wealth  of  his  second  son,  whom  he 
named  Maximilien.  Etienne  was  to  be  made  a  priest, 
in  order  to  leave  the  property  and  titles  of  the  house 
of  Herouville  to  his  younger  brother.  At  that  cost  the 
poor  mother  believed  she  insured  the  safety  of  her 
hated  child. 

No  two  brothers  were  ever  more  unlike  than  Etienne 


348  The  Hated  Son. 

and  Maximilien.  The  younger's  taste  was  all  for  noise, 
violent  exercises,  and  war,  and  the  count  felt  for  him 
the  same  excessive  love  that  his  wife  felt  for  Etienne. 
By  a  tacit  compact  each  parent  took  charge  of  the 
child  of  their  heart.  The  duke  (for  about  this  time 
Henri  IV.  rewarded  the  services  of  the  Seigneur  d'He- 
rouville  witli  a  dukedom),  not  wishing,  he  said,  to 
fatigue  his  wife,  gave  the  nursing  of  the  youngest  boy 
to  a  stout  peasant-woman  chosen  by  Beauvouloir,  and 
anuounced  his  determination  to  bring  up  the  child  in 
his  own  manner.  He  gave  him,  as  time  went  on,  a 
holy  horror  of  books  and  study ;  taught  him  the  me- 
chanical knowledge  required  by  a  military  career,  made 
him  a  good  rider,  a  good  shot  with  an  arquebuse,  and 
skilful  with  his  dagger.  When  the  boy  was  big  enough 
he  took  him  to  hunt,  and  let  him  acquire  the  savage 
language,  the  rough  manners,  the  bodily  strength,  and 
the  vivacity  of  look  and  speech  which  to  his  mind  were 
the  attributes  of  an  accomplished  man.  The  boy  be- 
came, by  the  time  he  was  twelve  years  old,  a  lion-cub 
ill-trained,  as  formidable  in  his  way  as  the  father  him- 
self, having  free  rein  to  tyrannize  over  every  one,  and 
using  the  privilege. 

Etienne  lived  in  the  little  house,  or  lodge,  near  the 
sea,  given  to  him  by  his  father,  and  fitted  up  by  the 
duchess  with  some  of  the  comforts  and  enjoyments  to 
which  he  had  a  right.  She  herself  spent  the  greater 
part  of  her  time  there.  Together  the  mother  and  child 
roamed  over  the  rocks  and  the  shore,  keeping  strictly 
within  the  limits  of  the  boy's  domain  of  beach  and 
shells,  of  moss  and  pebbles.  The  boy's  terror  of  his 
father  was  so  great  that,  like  the  Lapp,  who  lives  and. 


The  Hated  Son.  349 

dies  in  his  snow,  he  made  a  native  land  of  his  rocks 
and  his  cottage,  and  was  terrified  and  uneasy  if  he 
passed  his  frontier. 

The  duchess,  knowing  that  her  child  was  not  fitted 
to  find  happiness  except  in  some  humble  and  retired 
sphere,  did  not  regret  the  fate  that  was  thus  imposed 
upon  him  ;  she  used  this  enforced  vocation  to  prepare 
him  for  a  noble  life  of  study  and  science,  and  she 
brought  to  the  chateau  Pierre  de  Sebonde  as  tutor  to 
the  future  priest.  .Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  the  tonsure 
imposed  by  the  will  of  the  father,  she  was  determined 
that  Etienne's  education  should  not  be  wholly  ecclesi- 
astical, and  took  pains  to  secularize  it.  She  employed 
Beauvouloir  to  teach  him  the  mysteries  of  natural  sci- 
ence ;  she  herself  superintended  his  studies,  regulating 
them  according  to  her  child's  strength,  and  enlivening 
them  by  teaching  him  Italian,  and  revealing  to  him 
little  by  little  the  poetic  beauties  of  that  language. 
While  the  duke  rode  off  with  Maximilien  to  the  forest 
and  the  wild-boars  at  the  risk  of  his  life,  Jeanne  wan- 
dered with  Etienne  in  the  milky  way  of  Petrarch's 
sonnets,  or  the  mighty  labyrinth  of  the  Divina  Com- 
media.  Nature  had  endowed  the  youth,  in  compensa- 
tion for  his  infirmities,  with  so  melodious  a  voice  that 
to  hear  him  sing  was  a  constant  delight ;  his  mother 
taught  him  music,  and  their  tender,  melancholy  songs, 
accompanied  by  a  mandolin,  were  the  favorite  recrea- 
tion promised  as  a  reward  for  some  more  arduous 
study  required  by  the  Abbe  de  Sebonde.  Etienne  lis- 
tened to  his  mother  with  a  passionate  admiration  she 
had  never  seen  except  in  the  eyes  of  Georges  de  Cha- 
verny.     The  first  time  the  poor  woman  found  a  mem- 


350  The  Hated  Son. 

ory  of  her  girlhood  in  the  long,  slow  look  of  her  child, 
she  covered  him  with  kisses ;  and  she  blushed  when 
Etienne  asked  her  why  she  seemed  to  love  him  better 
at  that  moment  than  ever  before.  She  answered  that 
every  hour  made  him  dearer  to  her.  She  found  in  the 
training  of  his  soul,  and  in  the  culture  of  his  mind, 
pleasures  akin  to  those  she  had  tasted  in  feeding  him 
with  her  milk.  She  put  all  her  pride  and  self-love  into 
making  him  superior  to  herself,  and  not  in  ruling  him. 
Hearts  without  tenderness  covet  dominion,  but  a  true 
love  treasures  abnegation,  that  virtue  of  strength. 
When  Etienne  could  not  at  first  comprehend  a  demon- 
stration, a  theme,  a  theory,  the  poor  mother,  who  was 
present  at  the  lessons,  seemed  to  long  to  infuse  knowl- 
edge, as  formerly  she  had  given  nourishment  at  the 
child's  least  cry.  And  then,  what  joy  suffused  her 
eyes  when  Etienne's  mind  seized  the  true  sense  of 
things  and  appropriated  it.  She  proved,  as  Pierre  de 
Sebonde  said,  that  a  mother  is  a  dual  being  whose 
sensations  cover  two  existences. 

"  Ah,  if  some  woman  as  loving  as  I  could  infuse 
into  him  hereafter  the  life  of  love,  how  happy  he  might 
be  !  "  she  often  thought. 

But  the  fatal  interests  which  consigned  Etienne  to 
the  priesthood  returned  to  her  mind,  and  she  kissed 
the  hair  that  the  scissors  of  the  Church  were  to  shear, 
leaving  her  tears  upon  them.  Still,  in  spite  of  the 
unjust  compact  she  had  made  with  the  duke,  she  could 
not  see  Etienne  in  her  visions  of  the  future  as  priest 
or  cardinal ;  and  the  absolute  forgetfulness  of  the 
father  as  to  his  first-born,  enabled  her  to  postpone  the 
moment  of  putting  him  into  Holy  Orders. 


The  Hated  Son.  351 

"  There  is  time  enough,"  she  said  to  herself. 

The  day  came  when  all  her  cares,  inspired  by  a 
sentiment  which  seemed  to  enter  into  the  flesh  of  her 
son  and  give  it  life,  had  their  reward.  Beauvou- 
loir  —  that  blessed  man  whose  teachings  had  proved  so 
precious  to  the  child,  and  whose  anxious  glance  at  that 
frail  idol  had  so  often  made  the  duchess  tremble  — 
declared  that  Etienne  was  now  in  a  condition  to  live 
long  years,  provided  no  violent  emotion  came  to  con- 
vulse his  delicate  body.     Etienne  was  then  sixteen. 

At  that  age  he  was  just  five  feet,  a  height  he  never 
passed.     His  skin,  as  transparent  and  satiny  as  that 
of  a  little  girl,  showed  a  delicate  tracery  of  blue  veins ; 
its  whiteness  was  that  of  porcelain.     His  eyes,  which 
were  light  blue  and  ineffably  gentle,  implored  the  pro- 
tection of  men  and  women  ;   that  beseeching  look  fas- 
cinated before  the   melody  of  his  voice  was  heard  to 
complete  the  charm.     True  modesty  was  in  every  feat- 
ure.    Long  chestnut  hair,  smooth  and  very  fine,  was 
parted  in  the  middle  of  his  head  into  two  bandeaus 
which  curled  at  their  extremity.     His  pale  and  hollow 
cheeks,  his  pure  brow,  lined  with  a  few  furrows,  ex- 
pressed a  condition  of  suffering  which  was  painful  to 
witness.      His  mouth,   always  gracious,   and  adorned 
with  very  white  teeth,   wore  the  sort  of  fixed  smile 
which  we  often    see   on  the  lips  of  the  dying.     His 
hands,  white  as  those  of  a  woman,  were  remarkably 
handsome.     The  habit  of  meditation  had  taught  him 
to  droop  his  head  like  a  fragile  flower,  and  the  attitude 
was  in  keeping  with  his  person ;  it  was  like  the  last 
grace  that  a  great  artist  touches   into  a   portrait  to 
bring  out  its  latent  thought.     Etienne's  head  was  that 


352  The  Hated  Son. 

of  a  delicate  girl  placed  upon  the  weakly  and  deformed 
body  of  a  man. 

Poesy,  the  rich  meditations  of  which  make  us  roam 
like  botanists  through  the  vast  fields  of  thought,  the 
fruitful  comparison  of  human  ideas,  the  enthusiasm 
given  by  a  clear  conception  of  works  of  genius,  came 
to  be  the  inexhaustible  and  tranquil  joys  of  the  young 
man's  solitary  and  dreamy  life.  Flowers,  ravishing 
creatures  whose  destiny  resembled  his  own,  were  his 
loves.  Happy  to  see  in  her  son  the  innocent  passions 
which  took  the  place  of  the  rough  contact  with  social 
life  which  he  never  could  have  borne,  the  duchess  en- 
couraged Etienne's  tastes ;  she  brought  him  Spanish 
romanceros,  Italian  motets,  books,  sonnets,  poems. 
The  library  of  Cardinal  d'Herouville  came  into 
Etienne's  possession,  the  use  of  which  filled  his  life. 
These  readings,  which  his  fragile  health  forbade  him 
to  continue  for  many  hours  at  a  time,  and  his  rambles 
among  the  rocks  of  his  domain,  were  interspersed  with 
naive  meditations  which  kept  him  motionless  for  hours 
together  before  his  smiling  flowers  —  those  sweet  com- 
panions !  —  or  crouching  in  a  niche  of  the  rocks  before 
some  species  of  algre,  a  moss,  a  seaweed,  studying 
their  mysteries;  seeking  perhaps  a  rhythm  in  their 
fragrant  depths,  like  a  bee  its  honey.  He  often  ad- 
mired, without  purpose,  and  without  explaining  his 
pleasure  to  himself,  the  slender  lines  on  the  petals  of 
dark  flowers,  the  delicacy  of  their  rich  tunics  of  gold 
or  purple,  green  or  azure,  the  fringes,  so  profusely 
beautiful,  of  their  calixes  or  leaves,  their  ivory  or 
velvet  textures.  Later,  a  thinker  as  well  as  a  poet,  he 
would  detect  the  reason   of  these  innumerable  differ- 


The  Hated  Son.  353 

ences  in  a  single  nature,  by  discovering  the  indication 
of  unknown  faculties  ;  for  from  day  to  day  be  made 
progress  in  tbe  interpretation  of  tbe  Divine  Word  writ- 
ten upon  all  things  here  below. 

These  constant  and  secret  researches  into  matters 
occult  gave  to  Etienne's  life  the  apparent  somnolence 
of  meditative  genius.  He  would  spend  long  days 
lying  upon  the  shore,  happy,  a  poet,  all-unconscious  of 
the  fact.  The  sudden  irruption  of  a  gilded  insect,  the 
shimmering  of  the  sun  upon  the  ocean,  the  tremulous 
motion  of  the  vast  and  limpid  mirror  of  the  waters,  a 
shell,  a  crab,  all  was  event  and  pleasure  to  that  ingen- 
uous young  soul.  And  then  to  see  his  mother  coming 
towards  him,  to  hear  from  afar  the  rustle  of  her  gown, 
to  await  her,  to  kiss  her,  to  talk  to  her,  to  listen  to  her 
gave  him  such  keen  emotions  that  often  a  slight  delay, 
a  trilling  fear  would  throw  him  into  a  violent  fever. 
In  him  there  was  nought  but  soul,  and  in  order  that 
the  weak,  debilitated  body  should  not  be  destroyed  by 
the  keen  emotions  of  that  soul,  Etienne  needed  silence, 
caresses,  peace  in  the  landscape,  and  the  love  of  a 
woman.  For  the  time  being,  his  mother  gave  him  the 
love  and  the  caresses ;  flowers  and  books  entranced 
his  solitude ;  his  little  kingdom  of  sand  and  shells, 
algae  and  verdure  seemed  to  him  a  universe,  ever  fresh 
and  new. 

Etienne  imbibed  all  the  benefits  of  this  physical  and 
absolutely  innocent  life,  this  mental  and  moral  life  so 
poetically  extended.  A  child  by  form,  a  man  in  mind, 
he  was  equally  angelic  under  either  aspect.  By  his 
mother's  influence  his  studies  had  removed  his  emo- 
tions to  the  region  of  ideas.     The   action  of  his  life 

23 


354  The  Hated  Son. 

took  place,  therefore,  in  the  moral  world,  far  from 
the  social  world  which  would  either  have  killed  him  or 
made  him  suffer.  He  lived  by  his  soul  and  by  his  in- 
tellect. Laying  hold  of  human  thought  by  reading, 
he  rose  to  thoughts  that  stirred  in  matter ;  he  felt  the 
thoughts  of  the  air,  he  read  the  thoughts  on  the  skies. 
Early  he  mounted  that  ethereal  summit  where  alone  he 
found  the  delicate  nourishment  that  his  soul  needed ; 
intoxicating  food  !  which  predestined  him  to  sorrow 
whenever  to  these  accumulated  treasures  should  be 
added  the  riches  of  a  passion  rising  suddenly  in  his 
heart. 

If,  at  times,  Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin  dreaded  that 
coming  storm,  she  consoled  herself  with  a  thought  which 
the  otherwise  sad  vocation  of  her  son  put  into  her 
mind,  —  for  the  poor  mother  found  no  remedy  for  his 
sorrows  except  some  lesser  sorrow. 

"  He  will  be  a  cardinal,"  she  thought ;  "he  will  live 
in  the  sentiment  of  Art,  of  which  he  will  make  himself 
the  protector.  He  will  love  Art  instead  of  loving  a 
woman,  and  Art  will  not  betray  him." 

The  pleasures  of  this  tender  motherhood  were 
incessantly  held  in  check  by  sad  reflections,  born 
of  the  strange  position  in  which  Etienne  was  placed. 
The  brothers  had  passed  the  adolescent  age  without 
knowing  each  other,  without  so  much  as  even  sus- 
pecting their  rival  existence.  The  duchess  had  long 
hoped  for  an  opportunity,  during  the  absence  of  her 
husband,  to  bind  the  two  brothers  to  each  other  in  some 
solemn  scene  by  which  she  might  enfold  them  both  in 
her  love.  This  hope,  long  cherished,  had  now  faded. 
Far  from   wishing  to   brinsj  about  an   intercourse  be- 


The  Hated  Son.  355 

tween  the  brothers,  she  feared  an  encounter  between 
them,  even  more  than  between  the  father  and  son. 
Maximilien,  who  believed  in  evil  only,  might  have 
feared  that  Etienne  would  some  day  claim  his  rights, 
and,  so  fearing,  might  have  flung  him  into  the  sea  with 
a  stone  around  his  neck.  No  son  had  ever  less  respect 
for  a  mother  than  he.  As  soon  as  he  could  reason  he 
had  seen  the  low  esteem  in  which  the  duke  held  his  wife. 
If  the  old  man  still  retained  some  forms  of  decency  in 
his  manners  to  the  duchess,  Maximilien,  unrestrained 
by  his  father,  caused  his  mother  many  a  grief. 

Consequently,  Bertrand  was  incessantly  on  the 
watch  to  prevent  Maximilien  from  seeing  Etienne, 
whose  existence  was  carefully  concealed.  All  the 
attendants  of  the  castle  cordially  hated  the  Marquis 
de  Saint-Sever  (the  name  and  title  borne  by  the 
younger  brother),  and  those  who  knew  of  the  existence 
of  the  elder  looked  upon  him  as  an  avenger  whom  God 
was  holding  in  reserve. 

Etienne's  future  was  therefore  doubtful ;  he  mi^ht 
even  be  persecuted  by  his  own  brother !  The  poor 
duchess  had  no  relations  to  whom  she  could  confide 
the  life  and  interests  of  her  cherished  child.  Would 
he  not  blame  her  when  in  his  violet  robes  he  longed 
to  be  a  father  as  she  had  been  a  mother?  These 
thoughts,  and  her  melancholy  life  so  full  of  secret 
sorrows  were  like  a  mortal  illness  kept  at  bay  for  a 
time  by  remedies.  Her  heart  needed  the  wisest  man- 
agement, and  those  about  her  were  cruelly  inexpert  in 
gentleness.  What  mother's  heart  would  not  have  been 
torn  at  the  sight  of  her  eldest  son,  a  man  of  mind  and 
soul  in  whom  a  noble  genius  made  itself  felt,  deprived 


356  The  Hated  Son. 

of  bis  rights,  while  the  younger,  hard  and  brutal,  with- 
out talent,  even  military  talent,  was  chosen  to  wear 
the  ducal  coronet  and  perpetuate  the  family?  The 
bouse  of  Herouville  was  discarding  its  own  glory.  In- 
capable of  anger  the  gentle  Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin 
could  only  bless  and  weep,  but  often  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  heaven,  asking  it  to  account  for  this  singular 
doom.  Those  eyes  filled  with  tears  when  she  thought 
that  at  her  death  her  cherished  child  would  be  wholly 
orphaned  and  left  exposed  to  the  brutalities  of  a  brother 
without  faith  or  conscience. 

Such  emotions  repressed,  a  first  love  unforgotten,  so 
many  sorrows  ignored  and  hidden  within  her,  —  for 
she  kept  her  keenest  sufferings  from  her  cherished 
child,  —  her  joys  embittered,  her  griefs  unrelieved,  all 
these  shocks  had  weakened  the  springs  of  life  and  were 
developing  in  her  system  a  slow  consumption  which 
day  by  day  was  gathering  greater  force.  A  last  blow 
hastened  it.  She  tried  to  warn  the  duke  as  to  the 
results  of  Maximilien's  education,  and  was  repulsed ; 
she  saw  that  she  could  give  no  remedy  to  the  shocking 
seeds  which  were  germinating  in  the  soul  of  her  second 
child.  From  this  moment  began  a  period  of  decline 
which  soon  became  so  visible  as  to  bring  about  the 
appointment  of  Beauvouloir  to  the  post  of  physician 
to  the  house  of  Herouville  and  the  government  of 
Normandy. 

The  former  bonesetter  came  to  live  at  the  castle. 
In  those  days  such  posts  belonged  to  learned  men,  who 
thus  gained  a  living  and  the  leisure  necessary  for 
a  studious  life  and  the  accomplishment  of  scientific 
work.      Beauvouloir   had   for   some    time    desired    the 


The  Hated  Son.  357 

situation,  because  his  knowledge  and  his  fortune 
had  won  him  numerous  bitter  enemies.  In  spite  of  the 
protection  of  a  great  family  to  whom  he  had  done  great 
services,  he  had  recently  been  implicated  in  a  criminal 
case,  and  the  intervention  of  the  Governor  of  Normandy, 
obtained  by  the  duchess,  had  alone  saved  him  from 
being  brought  to  trial.  The  duke  had  no  reason  to 
repent  this  protection  thus  given  to  the  old  bonesetter. 
Beauvouloir  saved  the  life  of  the  Marquis  de  Saint- 
Sever  in  so  dangerous  an  illness  that  any  other  physi- 
cian would  have  failed  in  doing  so.  But  the  wounds 
of  the  duchess  were  too  deep-seated  and  dated  too  far 
back  to  be  cured,  especially  as  they  were  constantly 
kept  open  in  her  home.  When  her  sufferings  warned 
this  angel  of  many  sorrows  that  her  end  was  approach- 
ing, death  was  hastened  by  the  gloomy  apprehensions 
that  filled  her  mind  as  to  the  future. 

"  What  will  become  of  my  poor  child  without  me?" 
was  a  thought  renewed  every  hour  like  a  bitter  tide. 

Obliged  at  last  to  keep  her  bed,  the  duchess  failed 
rapidly,  for  she  was  then  unable  to  see  her  son,  for- 
bidden as  he  was  by  her  compact  with  his  father  to 
approach  the  house.  The  sorrow  of  the  youth  was 
equal  to  that  of  the  mother.  Inspired  by  the  genius 
of  repressed  feeling,  Etienne  created  a  mystical  lan- 
guage by  which  to  communicate  with  his  mother.  He 
studied  the  resources  of  his  voice  like  an  opera-singer, 
and  often  he  came  beneath  her  windows  to  let  her  hear 
his  melodiously  melancholy  voice,  when  Beauvouloir  by 
a  sign  informed  him  she  was  alone.  Formerly,  as  a 
babe,  he  had  consoled  his  mother  with  his  smiles,  now, 
become  a  poet,  he  caressed  her  with  his  melodies. 


358  The  Hated  Son. 

44  Those  songs  give  me  life,"  said  the  duchess  to 
Beauvouloir,  inhaling  the  air  that  Etienne's  voice  made 
living. 

At  length  the  clay  came  when  the  poor  son's  mourn- 
ing began.  Already  he  had  felt  mysterious  correspond- 
ences between  his  emotions  and  the  movements  of 
the  ocean.  The  divining  of  tha  thoughts  of  matter,  a 
power  with  which  his  occult  knowledge  had  invested 
him,  made  this  phenomenon  more  eloquent  to  him  than 
to  all  others.  During  the  fatal  night  when  he  was 
taken  to  see  his  mother  for  the  last  time,  the  ocean 
was  agitated  by  movements  that  to  him  were  full  of 
meaning.  The  heaving  waters  seemed  to  show  that 
the  sea  was  working  intestinally  ;  the  swelling  waves 
rolled  in  and  spent  themselves  with  lugubrious  noises 
like  the  howling  of  a  dog  in  distress.  Unconsciously, 
Etienne  found  himself  saying  :  — 

"  What  does  it  want  of  me?  It  quivers  and  moans 
like  a  living  creature.  My  mother  has  often  told  me 
that  the  ocean  was  in  horrible  convulsions  on  the  night 
when  I  was  born.    Something  is  about  to  happen  to  me." 

This  thought  kept  him  standing  before  his  window 
with  his  eyes  sometimes  on  his  mother's  windows  where 
a  faint  light  trembled,  sometimes  on  the  ocean  which 
continued  to  moan.  Suddenly  Beauvouloir  knocked 
on  the  door  of  his  room,  opened  it,  and  showed  on  his 
saddened  face  the  reflection  of  some  new  misfortune. 

"Monseigneur,"  he  said,  "Madame  la  duchesse  is 
in  so  sad  a  state  that  she  wishes  to  see  you.  All  pre- 
cautions are  taken  that  no  harm  shall  happen  to  you 
in  the  castle  ;  but  we  must  be  prudent ;  to  see  her  you 
will  have  to  pass  through  the  room  of  Monseigneur  the 
duke,  the  room  where  you  were  born." 


The  Hated  Son.  359 

These  words  brought  the  tears  to  Etienne's  eyes, 
and  he  said  :  — 

"  The  Ocean  did  speak  to  me !  " 

Mechanically  he  allowed  himself  to  be  led  towards 
the  door  of  the  tower  which  gave  entrance  to  the 
private  way  leading  to  the  duchess's  room.  Bertrand 
was  awaiting  him,  lantern  in  hand.  Etienne  reached 
the  library  of  the  Cardinal  d'Herouville,  and  there  he 
was  made  to  wait  with  Beauvouloir  while  Bertrand 
went  on  to  unlock  the  other  doors,  and  make  sure  that 
the  hated  son  could  pass  through  his  father's  house 
without  danger.  The  duke  did  not  awake.  Advancing 
with  light  steps,  Etienne  and  Beauvouloir  heard  in  that 
immense  chateau  no  sound  but  the  plaintive  groans  of 
the  dying  woman.  Thus  the  very  circumstances  at- 
tending  the  birth  of  Etienne  were  renewed  at  the  death 
of  his  mother.  The  same  tempest,  same  agony,  same 
dread  of  awaking  the  pitiless  giant,  who,  on  this  occa- 
sion at  least,  slept  soundly.  Bertrand,  as  a  further 
precaution,  took  Etienne  in  his  arms  and  carried  him 
through  the  duke's  room,  intending  to  give  some  ex- 
cuse as  to  the  state  of  the  duchess  if  the  duke  awoke 
and  detected  him.  Etienne's  heart  was  horribly  wrung 
by  the  same  fears  which  filled  the  minds  of  these  faith- 
ful servants ;  but  this  emotion  prepared  him,  in  a 
measure,  for  the  sight  that  met  his  eyes  in  that  signo- 
rial  room,  which  he  had  never  re-entered  since  the 
fatal  day  when,  as  a  child,  the  paternal  curse  had 
driven  him  from  it. 

On  the  great  bed,  where  happiness  never  came,  he 
looked  for  his  beloved,  and  scarcely  found  her,  so 
emaciated  was  she.     White  as  her   own  laces,   with 


360  The  Hated  Son. 

scarcely  a  breath  left,  she  gathered  up  all  her  strength 
to  clasp  Etienne's  hand,  and  to  give  him  her  whole 
soul,  as  heretofore,  in  a  look.  Chaverny  had  be- 
queathed to  her  all  his  life  in  a  last  farewell.  Beau- 
vouloir  and  Bertraud,  the  mother  and  the  sleeping 
duke  were  all  once  more  assembled.  Same  place, 
same  scene,  same  actors !  but  this  was  funereal  grief 
in  place  of  the  joys  of  motherhood ;  the  night  of 
death  instead  of  the  dawn  of  life.  At  that  moment 
the  storm,  threatened  by  the  melancholy  moaning  of 
the  sea  since  sundown,  suddenly  burst  forth. 

"  Dear  flower  of  my  life  !  "  said  the  mother,  kissing 
her  sou.  "You  were  taken  from  my  bosom  in  the 
midst  of  a  tempest,  and  in  a  tempest  I  am  taken  from 
you.  Between  these  storms  all  life  has  been  stormy 
to  me,  except  the  hours  I  have  spent  with  you.  This 
is  my  last  joy,  mingled  with  my  last  pangs.  Adieu, 
my  only  love  !  adieu,  clear  image  of  two  souls  that  will 
soon  be  reunited!  Adieu,  my  only  joy  —  pure  joy! 
adieu,  my  own  beloved  !  " 

"  Let  me  follow  thee  !  "  cried  Etienne. 

"It  would  be  your  better  fate !  "  she  said,  two  tears 
rolling  down  her  livid  cheeks ;  for,  as  in  former  days, 
her  eyes  seemed  to  read  the  future.  "  Did  any  one 
see  him?"  she  asked  of  the  two  men. 

At  this  instant  the  duke  turned  in  his  bed ;  they  all 
trembled. 

"  Even  my  last  joy  is  mingled  with  pain,"  murmured 
the  duchess.     "  Take  him  away  !  take  him  away  !  ' 

"  Mother,  I  would  rather  see  you  a  moment  longer 
and  die  !  "  said  the  poor  lad,  as  he  fainted  by  her  side. 

At  a  sign  from  the  duchess,  Bertrand  took  Etienne 


The  Hated  Son.  361 

in  his  arms,  and,  showing  him  for  the  last  time  to  his 
mother,  who  kissed  him  with  a  last  look,  he  turned  to 
carry  him  away,  awaiting  the  final  order  of  the  dying 
mother. 

"Love  him  well!"  she  said  to  the  physician  and 
Bertrand  ;  ""he  has  no  protectors  but  you  and 
Heaven." 

Prompted  by  an  instinct  which  never  misleads  a 
mother,  she  had  felt  the  pity  of  the  old  retainer  for 
the  eldest  son  of  a  house,  for  which  his  veneration 
was  only  comparable  to  that  of  the  JewTs  for  their  Holy 
City,  Jerusalem.  As  for  Beauvouloir,  the  compact 
between  himself  and  the  duchess  had  long  been  signed. 
The  two  servitors,  deeply  moved  to  see  their  mistress 
forced  to  bequeath  her  noble  child  to  none  but  them- 
selves, promised  by  a  solemn  gesture  to  be  the  provi- 
dence of  their  young  master,  and  the  mother  had  faith 
in  that  gesture. 

The  duchess  died  towards  morning,  mourned  by  the 
servants  of  the  household,  wrho,  for  all  comment,  were 
heard  to  say  beside  her  grave,  "She  was  a  comely 
woman,  sent  from  Paradise." 

Etienne's  sorrow  was  the  most  intense,  the  most 
lasting  of  sorrows,  and  wholly  silent.  He  wrandered 
no  more  among  his  rocks  ;  he  felt  no  streugth  to  read 
or  sing.  He  spent  whole  da}7s  crouched  in  the  crevice 
of  a  rock,  caring  nought  for  the  inclemency  of  the 
weather,  motionless,  fastened  to  the  granite  like  the 
lichen  that  grew  upon  it;  weeping  seldom,  lost  in  one 
sole  thought,  immense,  infinite  as  the  ocean,  and,  like 
that  ocean,  taking  a  thousand  forms,  —  terrible,  tem- 
pestuous, tender,  calm.     It  was  more  than  sorrow;  it 


362  The  Hated  Son. 

was  a  new  existence,  an  irrevocable  destiny,  dooming 
this  innocent  creature  to  smile  no  more.  There  are 
pangs  which,  like  a  drop  of  blood  cast  into  flowing 
water,  stain  the  whole  current  instantly.  The  stream, 
renewed  from  its  source,  restores  the  purity  of  its 
surface  ;  but  with  Etienne  the  source  itself  was  pol- 
luted, and  each  new  current  brought  its  own  gall. 

Bertrand,  in  his  old  age,  had  retained  the  superin- 
tendence of  the  stables,  so  as  not  to  lose  the  habit  of 
authorit}7  in  the  household.  His  house  was  not  far 
from  that  of  Etienne,  so  that  he  was  ever  at  hand  to 
watch  over  the  youth  with  the  persistent  affection  and 
simple  wiliness  characteristic  of  old  soldiers.  He 
checked  his  roughness  when  speaking  to  the  poor  lad  ; 
softly  he  walked  in  rainy  weather  to  fetch  him  from 
his  revery  in  his  crevice  to  the  house.  He  put  his 
pride  into  filling  the  mother's  place,  so  that  her  child 
might  find,  if  not  her  love,  at  least  the  same  atten- 
tions. This  pity  resembled  tenderness.  Etienne  bore, 
without  complaint  or  resistance,  these  attentions  of  the 
old  retainer,  but  too  many  links  were  now  broken  be- 
tween the  hated  child  and  other  creatures  to  admit  of 
any  keen  affection  at  present  in  his  heart.  Mechani- 
cally he  allowed  himself  to  be  protected ;  he  became, 
as  it  were,  an  intermediary  creature  between  man  and 
plant,  or,  perhaps  one  might  say,  between  man  and 
God.  To  what  shall  we  compare  a  being  to  whom  all 
social  laws,  all  the  false  sentiments  of  the  world  were 
unknown,  and  who  kept  his  ravishing  innocence  by 
obeying  nought  but  the  instincts  of  his  heart? 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  his  sombre  melancholy,  he 
came  to  feel  the  need  of  loving,  of  finding  another 


The  Hated  Son.  363 

mother,  another  soul  for  his  soul.  But,  separated  from 
civilization  by  an  iron  wall,  it  was  well-nigh  impossible 
to  meet  with  a  being  who  had  flowered  like  himself. 
Instinctively  seeking  another  self  to  whom  to  confide 
his  thoughts  and  whose  life  might  blend  with  his  life, 
he  ended  in  sympathizing  with  the  Ocean.  The  sea 
became  to  him  a  living,  thinking  being.  Always  in 
presence  of  that  vast  creation,  the  hidden  marvels  of 
which  contrast  so  grandly  with  those  of  earth,  he  dis- 
covered the  meaning  of  many  mysteries.  Familiar 
from  his  cradle  with  the  infinitude  of  those  liquid  fields, 
the  sea  and  the  sky  taught  him  many  poems.  To  him, 
all  was  variety  in  that  vast  picture  so  monotonous  to 
some.  Like  other  men  whose  souls  dominate  their 
bodies,  he  had  a  piercing  sight  which  could  reach  to 
enormous  distances  and  seize,  with  admirable  ease 
and  without  fatigue,  the  fleeting  tints  of  the  clouds, 
the  passing  shimmer  of  the  waters.  On  days  of  per- 
fect stillness  his  eyes  could  see  the  manifold  tints  of  the 
ocean,  which  to  him,  like  the  face  of  a  woman,  had  its 
physiognomy,  its  smiles,  ideas,  caprices  ;  there  green 
and  sombre ;  here  smiling  and  azure ;  sometimes  unit- 
ing its  brilliant  lines  with  the  hazy  gleams  of  the 
horizon,  or  again,  softly  swaying  beneath  the  orange- 
tinted  heavens.  For  him  all-glorious  fetes  were  cele- 
brated at  sundown  when  the  star  of  day  poured  its  red 
colors  on  the  waves  in  a  crimson  flood.  For  him  the 
sea  was  gay  and  sparkling  and  spirited  when  it  quiv- 
ered in  repeating  the  noonday  light  from  a  thousand 
dazzling  facets ;  to  him  it  revealed  its  wondrous  mel- 
ancholy ;  it  made  him  weep  whenever,  calm  and  sad, 
it  reflected  the  dun-gray  sky  surcharged  with  clouds. 


364       .  The  Hated  Son. 

He  had  learned  the  mute  language  of  that  vast  crea- 
tion. The  flux  and  reflux  of  its  waters  were  to  him  a 
melodious  breathing  which  uttered  in  his  ear  a  senti- 
ment ;  he  felt  and  comprehended  its  inward  meaning. 
No  mariner,  no  man  of  science,  could  have  predicted 
better  than  he  the  slightest  wrath  of  the  ocean,  the 
faintest  change  on  that  vast  face.  By  the  manner  of 
the  waves  as  they  rose  and  died  away  upon  the  shore, 
he  could  foresee  tempests,  surges,  squalls,  the  height  of 
tides,  or  calms.  When  night  had  spread  its  veil  upon 
the  sky,  he  still  could  see  the  sea  in  its  twilight  mys- 
tery, and  talk  with  it.  At  all  times  he  shared  its  fecund 
life,  feeling  in  his  soul  the  tempest  when  it  was  an- 
gry ;  breathing  its  rage  in  its  hissing  breath  ;  running 
with  its  waves  as  they  broke  in  a  thousand  liquid 
fringes  upon  the  rocks.  He  felt  himself  intrepid,  free, 
and  terrible  as  the  sea  itself ;  like  it,  he  bounded  and 
fell  back ;  he  kept  its  solemn  silence  ;  he  copied  its 
sudden  pause.  In  short,  he  had  wedded  the  sea ;  it 
was  now  his  confidant,  his  friend.  In  the  morning 
when  he  crossed  the  glowing  sands  of  the  beach  and 
came  upon  his  rocks,  he  divined  the  temper  of  the 
ocean  from  a  single  glance ;  he  could  see  landscapes 
on  its  surface ;  he  hovered  above  the  face  of  the 
waters,  like  an  angel  coining  down  from  heaven. 
When  the  joyous,  mischievous  white  mists  cast  then- 
gossamer  before  him,  like  a  veil  before  the  face  of  a 
bride,  he  followed  their  undulations  and  caprices  with 
the  joy  of  a  lover.  His  thought,  married  with  that 
grand  expression  of  the  divine  thought,  consoled  him 
in  his  solitude,  and  the  thousand  outlooks  of  his  soul 
peopled  its  desert  with  glorious  fantasies.     He  ended 


The  Hated  Son.  365 

at  last  by  divining  in  the  motions  of  the  sea  its  close 
communion  with  the  celestial  system ;  he  perceived 
nature  in  its  harmonious  whole,  from  the  blade  of 
grass  to  the  wandering  stars  which  seek,  like  seeds 
driven  by  the  wind,  to  plant  themselves  in  ether. 

Pare  as  an  angel,  virgin  of  those  ideas  which  de- 
grade mankind,  naive  as  a  child,  he  lived  like  a  sea- 
bird,  a  gull,  or  a  flower,  prodigal  of  the  treasures  of 
poetic  imagination,  and  possessed  of  a  divine  knowl- 
edge, the  fruitful  extent  of  which  he  contemplated  in 
solitude.  Incredible  mingling  of  two  creations  !  some- 
times he  rose  to  God  in  prayer ;  sometimes  he  de- 
scended, humble  and  resigned,  to  the  quiet  happiness 
of  animals.  To  him  the  stars  were  the  flowers  of 
night,  the  birds  his  friends,  the  sun  was  a  father. 
Everywhere  he  found  the  soul  of  his  mother ;  often 
he  saw  her  in  the  clouds ;  he  spoke  to  her ;  they  com- 
municated, veritably,  by  celestial  visions ;  on  certain 
days  he  could  hear  her  voice  and  see  her  smile ;  in 
short,  there  were  days  when  he  had  not  lost  her.  God 
seemed  to  have  given  him  the  power  of  the  hermits  of 
old,  to  have  endowed  him  with  some  perfected  inner 
senses  which  penetrated  to  the  spirit  of  all  things. 
Unknown  moral  forces  enabled  him  to  go  farther  than 
other  men  into  the  secrets  of  the  Immortal  labor.  His 
yearnings,  his  sorrows  were  the  links  that  united  him 
to  the  unseen  world  ;  he  weut  there,  armed  with  his 
love,  to  seek  his  mother ;  realizing  thus,  with  the  sub- 
lime harmonies  of  ecstasy,  the  symbolic  enterprise  of 
Orpheus. 

Often,  when  crouching  in  the  crevice  of  some  rock, 
capriciously  curled   up  in   his  granite  grotto,  the  en- 


366  The  Hated  Son. 

trance  to  which  was  as  narrow  as  that  of  a  charcoal 
kiln,  he  would  sink  into  involuntary  sleep,  his  figure 
softly  lighted  by  the  warm  rays  of  the  sun  which  crept 
through  the  fissures  and  fell  upon  the  dainty  seaweeds 
that  adorned  his  retreat,  the  veritable  nest  of  a  sea- 
bird.  The  sun,  his  sovereign  lord,  aloue  told  him  that 
he  had  slept,  by  measuring  the  time  he  had  been  absent 
from  his  watery  landscapes,  his  golden  sands,  his  shells 
and  pebbles.  Across  a  light  as  brilliant  as  that  from 
heaven  he  saw  the  cities  of  which  he  read ;  he  looked 
with  amazement,  but  without  envy,  at  courts  and 
kings,  battles,  men,  and  buildings.  These  daylight 
dreams  made  dearer  to  him  his  precious  flowers,  his 
clouds,  his  sun,  his  granite  rocks.  To  attach  him 
the  more  to  his  solitary  existence,  an  angel  seemed  to 
reveal  to  him  the  abysses  of  the  moral  world  and  the 
terrible  shocks  of  civilization.  He  felt  that  his  soul, 
if  torn  by  the  throng  of  men,  would  perish  like  a  pearl 
dropped  from  the  crown  of  a  princess  into  mud. 


The  Hated  Son.  367 


PART    SECOND. 
HOW  THE  SON  DIED. 


IV. 

AN    HEIR. 


In  1617,  twenty  and  some  years  after  the  horrible 
night  during  which  Etienne  came  into  the  world,  the 
Due  d'He'rouville,  then  seventy-six  years  old,  broken, 
decrepit,  almost  dead,  was  sitting  at  sunset  in  an  im- 
mense arm-chair,  before  the  gothic  window  of  his  bed- 
room, at  the  place  where  his  wife  had  so  vainly 
implored,  by  the  sounds  of  the  horn  wasted  on  the 
air,  the  help  of  men  and  heaven.  You  might  have 
thought  him  a  body  resurrected  from  the  grave.  His 
once  energetic  face,  stripped  of  its  sinister  aspect  by 
old  age  and  suffering,  was  ghastly  in  color,  matching 
the  long  meshes  of  white  hair  which  fell  around  his 
bald  head,  the  yellow  skull  of  which  seemed  softening. 
The  warrior  and  the  fanatic  still  shone  in  those  yellow 
eyes,  tempered  now  by  religious  sentiment.  Devotion 
had  cast  a  monastic  tone  upon  the  face,  formerly  so 
hard,  but  now  marked  with  tints  which  softened  its 
expression.  The  reflections  of  the  setting  sun  colored 
with  a  faintly  ruddy  tinge  the  head,  which,  in  spite  of 


368  The  Hated  Son. 

all  infirmities,  was  still  vigorous.  The  feeble  body, 
wrapped  in  brown  garments,  gave,  by  its  heavy  atti- 
tude and  the  absence  of  all  movement,  a  vivid  impres- 
sion of  the  monotonous  existence,  the  terrible  repose 
of  this  man  once  so  active,  so  enterprising,  so 
vindictive. 

"  Enough  !  "  he  said  to  his  chaplain. 

That  venerable  old  man  was  reading  aloud  the  Gos- 
pel, standing  before  the  master  in  a  respectful  atti- 
tude. The  duke,  like  an  old  menagerie  lion  which  has 
reached  a  decrepitude  that  is  still  full  of  majesty, 
turned  to  another  white-haired  man  and  said,  holding 
out  a  fleshless  arm  covered  with  sparse  hairs,  still 
sinewy,  but  without  vigor :  — 

"  Your  turn  now,  bonesetter.     How  am  I  to-day?" 

"Doing  well,  mouseigneur ;  the  fever  has  ceased. 
You  will  live  many  years  yet." 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  Maximilien  here,"  continued  the 
duke,  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction.  "  My  fine  boy ! 
He  commands  a  company  of  the  King's  Guard.  The 
Marechal  d'Ancre  takes  care  of  my  lad,  and  our  gra- 
cious Queen  Marie  thinks  of  allying  him  nobly,  now 
that  he  is  created  Due  de  Nivron.  My  race  will  be 
worthily  continued.  The  lad  performed  prodigies  of 
valor  in  the  attack  on  —  " 

At  this  moment  Bertrand  entered,  holding  a  letter  in 
his  hand. 

"  What  is  this?"  said  the  old  lord,  eagerly. 

"A  despatch  brought  by  a  courier  sent  to  you  by  the 
king,"  replied  Bertrand. 

"The  king,  and  not  the  queen-mother!"  exclaimed 
the  duke.     "What  is  happening?     Have  the  Hngue- 


The  Hated  Son.  369 


nots  taken  arms  again?  Tete-Dleu! "  cried  the  old 
man,  rising  to  bis  feet  and  casting  a  flaming  glance 
at  his  three  companions,  "I'll  arm  my  soldiers  once 
more,  and,  with  Maximilien  by  my  side,  Normandy 
shall  —  " 

"  Sit  down,  my  good  seigneur,"  said  Beauvonloir, 
uneasy  at  seeing  the  duke  give  way  to  an  excitement 
that  was  dangerous  to  a  convalescent. 

"  Read  it,  Mattre  Corbineau,"  said  the  old  man, 
holding  out  the  missive  to  his  confessor. 

These  four  personages  formed  a  tableau  full  of  in- 
struction upon  human  life.  The  man-at-arms,  the 
priest,  and  the  physician,  all  three  standing  before 
their  master,  who  was  seated  in  his  arm-chair,  were 
casting  pallid  glances  about  them,  each  presenting  one 
of  those  ideas  which  end  by  possessing  the  whole  man 
on  the  verge  of  the  tomb.  Strongly  illumined  by  a 
last  ray  of  the  setting  sun,  these  silent  men  composed 
a  picture  of  aged  melancholy  fertile  in  contrasts.  The 
sombre  and  solemn  chamber,  where  nothing  had  been 
changed  in  twenty-five  years,  made  a  frame  for  this 
poetic  canvas,  full  of  extinguished  passions,  saddened 
by  death,  tinctured  by  religion. 

"The  Marechal  d'Ancre  has  been  killed  on  the  Pont 
du  Louvre  by  order  of  the  king,  and  —  O  God  !  " 

"  Go  on  !  "  cried  the  duke. 

"  Monsieur  le  Due  de  Nivron  —  " 

"Well?" 

"Is  dead!" 

The  duke  dropped  his  head  upon  his  breast  with  a 
great  sigh,  but  was  silent.  At  those  words,  at  that 
sigh,    the    three   old    men   looked   at   each    other.     It 

24 


370  The  Hated  Son. 

seemed  to  them  as  though  the  illustrious  and  opulent 
house  of  Herouville  was  disappearing  before  their  eyes 
like  a  sinking  ship. 

"  The  Master  above,"  said  the  duke,  casting  a  ter- 
rible glance  at  the  heavens,  "  is  ungrateful  to  me. 
He  forgets  the  great  deeds  I  have  performed  for  his 
holy  cause." 

'*  God  has  avenged  himself!  "  said  the  priest,  in  a 
solemn  voice. 

"  Put  that  man  in  the  dungeon  !  "  cried  the  duke. 

"  You  can  silence  me  far  more  easily  than  you  can 
your  conscience." 

The  duke  sank  back  in  thought. 

u  My  house  to  perish  !  My  name  to  be  extinct!  I 
will  marry  !  I  will  have  a  son  !  "  he  said,  after  a  long 
pause. 

Though  the  expression  of  despair  on  the  duke's  face 
was  truly  awful,  the  bonesetter  could  not  repress  a 
smile.  At  that  instant  a  song,  fresh  as  the  evening 
breeze,  pure  as  the  sky,  equable  as  the  color  of  the 
ocean,  rose  above  the  murmur  of  the  waves,  to  cast  its 
charm  over  Nature  herself.  The  melancholy  of  that 
voice,  the  melody  of  its  tones  shed,  as  it  were,  a  per- 
fume rising  to  the  soul ;  its  harmony  rose  like  a  vapor 
filling  the  air ;  it  poured  a  balm  on  sorrows,  or  rather 
it  consoled  them  by  expressing  them.  The  voice  min- 
gled with  the  gurgle  of  the  waves  so  perfectly  that  it 
seemed  to  rise  from  the  bosom  of  the  waters.  That 
song  was  sweeter  to  the  ears  of  those  old  men  than  the 
tenderest  word  of  love  on  the  lips  of  a  young  girl ;  it 
brought  religious  hope  into  their  souls  like  a  voice 
from  heaven. 


The  Hated  Son.  371 

u  What  is  that?  "  asked  the  duke. 

4 'The  little  nightingale  is  singing,"  said  Bertrand ; 
"  all  is  not  lost,  either  for  hiin  or  for  us." 

"  What  do  you  call  a  nightingale?" 

"That  is  the  name  we  have  given  to  monseigneur's 
eldest  son,"  replied  Bertrand. 

"  My  son  !  "  cried  the  old  man  ;  "  have  I  a  son?  — a 
son  to  bear  my  name  and  to  perpetuate  it !  " 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  began  to  walk  about  the 
room  with  steps  in  turn  precipitate  and  slow.  Then 
he  made  an  imperious  gesture,  sending  every  one 
away  from  him  except  the  priest. 

The  next  morning  the  duke,  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
his  old  retainer  Bertrand,  walked  along  the  shore  and 
among  the  rocks  looking  for  the  son  he  had  so  long 
hated.  He  saw  him  from  afar  in  a  recess  of  the  granite 
rocks,  lying  carelessly  extended  in  the  sun,  his  head 
on  a  tuft  of  mossy  grass,  his  feet  gracefully  drawn  up 
beneath  him.  So  lying,  Etienne  was  like  a  swallow  at 
rest.  As  soon  as  the  tall  old  man  appeared  upon  the 
beach,  the  sound  of  his  steps  faintly  mingling  with  the 
voice  of  the  waves,  the  young  man  turned  his  head, 
gave  the  cry  of  a  startled  bird,  and  disappeared  as  if 
into  the  rock  itself,  like  a  mouse  darting  so  quickly 
into  its  hole  that  we  doubt  if  we  have  even  seen  it. 

"  Hey!  tete-Dieuf  where  has  he  hid  himself?"  cried 
the  duke,  reaching  the  rock  beside  which  his  son  had 
been  lying. 

"  He  is  there,"  replied  Bertrand,  pointing  to  a  narrow 
crevice,  the  edges  of  which  had  been  polished  smooth 
by  the  repeated  assaults  of  the  high  tide. 

"  Etienne,  my  beloved  son !  "  called  the  old  man. 


372  The  Hated  Son. 

The  hated  child  made  no  reply.  For  hours  the 
duke  entreated,  threatened,  implored  in  turn,  receiving 
no  response.  Sometimes  he  was  silent,  with  his  ear  at 
the  cleft  of  the  rock,  where  even  his  enfeebled  hearing 
could  detect  the  beating  of  Etienne's  heart,  the  quick 
pulsations  of  which  echoed  from  the  sonorous  roof  of 
his  rocky  hiding-place. 

"  At  least  he  lives ! "  said  the  old  man,  in  a  heart- 
rending voice. 

Towards  the  middle  of  the  day,  the  father,  reduced 
to  despair,  had  recourse  to  prayer  :  — 

"Etienne,"  he  said,  "my  dear  Etienne,  God  has 
punished  me  for  disowning  you.  He  has  deprived 
me  of  your  brother.  To-day  you  are  my  only  child. 
I  love  you  more  than  I  love  myself.  I  see  the  wrong  I 
have  done  ;  I  know  that  you  have  in  your  veins  my 
blood  with  that  of  your  mother,  whose  misery  was  my 
doing.  Come  to  me  ;  I  will  try  to  make  you  forget  my 
cruelty ;  I  will  cherish  you  for  all  that  I  have  lost. 
Etienne,  you  are  the  Due  de  Nivron,  and  you  will  be, 
after  me,  the  Due  d'Herouville,  peer  of  France,  knight 
of  the  Orders  and  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  captain  of  a 
hundred  men-at-arms,  grand-bailiff  of  Bessin,  Governor 
of  Normandy,  lord  of  twenty-seven  domains  counting 
sixty-nine  steeples,  Marquis  de  Saint-Sever.  You  shall 
take  to  wife  the  daughter  of  a  prince.  Would  you  have 
me  die  of  grief?  Come  !  come  to  me  !  or  here  I  kneel 
until  I  see  you.  Your  old  father  prays  you,  he  humbles 
himself  before  his  child  as  before  God  himself." 

The  hated  son  paid  no  heed  to  this  language  bristling 
■with  social  ideas  and  vanities  he  did  not  comprehend ; 
his  soul  remained  under  the  impressions  of  uuconquer- 


The  Hated  Son.  373 

able  terror.  He  was  silent,  suffering  great  agony. 
Towards  evening  the  old  seigneur,  after  exhausting  all 
formulas  of  language,  all  resources  of  entreaty,  all 
repentant  promises,  was  overcome  by  a  sort  of  religious 
contrition.  He  knelt  down  upon  the  sand  and  made  a 
vow  :  — 

"I  swear  to  build  a  chapel  to  Saint- Jean  and  Saint- 
Etienne,  the  patrons  of  my  wife  and  son,  and  to  found 
one  hundred  masses  in  honor  of  the  Virgin,  if  God  and 
the  saints  will  restore  to  me  the  affection  of  my  son, 
the  Due  de  Nivron,  here  present." 

He  remained  on  his  knees  in  deep  humility  with 
clasped  hands,  praying.  Finding  that  his  son,  the 
hope  of  his  name,  still  did  not  come  to  him,  great 
tears  rose  in  his  eyes,  dry  so  long,  and  rolled  down  his 
withered  cheeks.  At  this  moment,  Etienne,  hearing 
no  further  sounds,  glided  to  the  opening  of  his  grotto 
like  a  young  adder  craving  the  sun.  He  saw  the  tears 
of  the  stricken  old  man,  he  recognized  the  signs  of  a 
true  grief,  and,  seizing  his  father's  hand,  he  kissed  him, 
saying  in  the  voice  of  an  angel :  — 

"  Oh,  mother  !  forgive  me  !  " 

In  the  fever  of  his  happiness  the  old  duke  lifted  his 
feeble  offspring  in  his  arms  and  carried  him,  trembling 
like  an  abducted  girl,  toward  the  castle.  As  he  felt 
the  palpitation  of  his  son's  body  he  strove  to  reassure 
him,  kissing  him  with  all  the  caution  he  might  have 
shown  in  touching  a  delicate  flower ;  and  speaking  in 
the  gentlest  tones  he  had  ever  in  his  life  used,  in  order 
to  soothe  him. 

"God's  truth!  you  are  like  my  poor  Jeanne,  dear 
child!"  he  said.      "Teach  me  what  would  give  you 


374  The  Hated  Son. 

pleasure,  and  I  will  give  you  all  you  can  desire.  Grow 
strong; !  be  well !  1  will  show  vou  how  to  ride  a  mare  as 
pretty  and  gentle  as  }Tourself .  Nothing  shall  ever  thwart 
or  trouble  you.  Tete-Dieu  !  all  things  bow  to  me  as  the 
reeds  to  the  wind.  I  give  you  unlimited  power.  I  bow 
to  you  myself  as  the  god  of  the  family." 

The  father  carried  his  son  into  the  lordly  chamber 
where  the  mother's  sad  existence  had  been  spent. 
Etienne  turned  away  and  leaned  against  the  window 
from  which  his  mother  was  wont  to  make  him  signals 
announcing  the  departure  of  his  persecutor,  who  now, 
without  his  knowing  why,  had  become  his  slave,  like 
those  gigantic  genii  which  the  power  of  a  fairy  places 
at  the  order  of  a  young  prince.  That  fairy  was 
Feudality.  Beholding  once  more  the  melancholy  room 
where  his  eyes  were  accustomed  to  contemplate  the 
ocean,  tears  came  into  those  eyes ;  recollections  of  his 
long  misery,  mingled  with  melodious  memories  of  the 
pleasures  he  had  had  in  the  only  love  that  was  granted 
to  him,  maternal  love,  all  rushed  together  upon  his 
heart  and  developed  there,  like  a  poem  at  once  terrible 
and  delicious.  The  emotions  of  this  youth,  accustomed 
to  live  in  contemplations  of  ecstasy  as  others  in  the 
excitements  of  the  world,  resembled  none  of  the 
habitual  emotions  of  mankind. 

"Will  he  live?"  said  the  old  man,  amazed  at  the 
fragility  of  his  heir,  and  holding  his  breath  as  he 
leaned  over  him. 

"I  can  live  only  here,"  replied  Etienne,  who  had 
heard  him,  simply. 

"  Well,  then,  this  room  shall  be  yours,  my  child." 

"  What  is  that  noise?"  asked  the  young  man,  hear- 


The  Hated  Son.  375 

ing  the  retainers  of  the  castle  who  were  gathering  in 
the  guard-room,  whither  the  duke  had  summoned  them 
to  present  his  son. 

"  Come!  "  said  the  father,  taking  him  by  the  hand 
and  leading  him  into  the  great  hall. 

At  this  epoch  of  our  history,  a  duke  and  peer,  with 
great  possessions,  holding  public  offices  and  the  gov- 
ernment of  a  province,  lived  the  life  of  a  prince ;  the 
cadets  of  his  family  did  not  revolt  at  serving  him. 
He  had  his  household  guard  and  officers ;  the  first 
lieutenant  of  his  ordnance  company  was  to  him  what, 
in  our  day,  an  aide-de-camp  is  to  a  marshal.  A  few 
years  later,  Cardinal  de  Richelieu  had  his  body-guard. 
Several  princes  allied  to  the  royal  house  —  Guise, 
Conde,  Nevers,  and  Venddme,  etc. — had  pages  chosen 
anions  the  sons  of  the  best  families,  —  a  last  lingering 
custom  of  departed  chivalry.  The  wealth  of  the  Due 
d'Herouville,  and  the  antiquity  of  his  Norman  race 
indicated  by  his  name  (hems  villm),  permitted  him  to 
imitate  the  magnificence  of  families  who  were  in  other 
respects  his  inferiors,  — ■-  those,  for  instance,  of  Eper- 
nou,  Luynes,  Balagny,  d'O,  Zamet,  regarded  as  par- 
venus, but  living,  nevertheless,  as  princes.  It  was 
therefore  an  imposing  spectacle  for  poor  Etienne  to 
see  the  assemblage  of  retainers  of  all  kinds  attached  to 
the  service  of  his  father. 

The  duke  seated  himself  on  a  chair  of  state  placed 
under  a  solium,  or  dais  of  carved  wood,  above  a  plat- 
form raised  by  several  steps,  from  which,  in  certain 
provinces,  the  great  seigneurs  still  delivered  judgment 
on  their  vassals,  —  a  vestige  of  feudality  which  dis- 
appeared under  the  reign  of  Richelieu.    These  thrones, 


376  The  Hated  Son. 

like  the  warden's  benches  of  the  churches,  have  now 
become  objects  of  collection  as  curiosities.  When 
Etienne  was  placed  beside  his  father  on  that  raised 
platform,  he  shuddered  at  feeliug  himself  the  centre 
to  which  all  eyes  turned. 

"  Do  not  tremble,"  said  the  duke,  bending  his  bald 
head  to  his  son's  ear;  "these  people  are  only  our 
servants." 

Through  the  dusky  light  produced  by  the  setting 
sun,  the  rays  of  which  were  reddening  the  leaded 
panes  of  the  windows,  Etienne  saw  the  bailiff,  the 
captain  and  lieutenant  of  the  guard,  with  certain  of 
their  men-at-arms,  the  chaplain,  the  secretaries,  the 
doctor,  the  majordomo,  the  ushers,  the  steward,  the 
huntsmen,  the  game-keeper,  the  grooms,  and  the  valets. 
Though  all  these  people  stood  in  respectful  attitudes, 
induced  by  the  terror  the  old  man  inspired  in  even  the 
most  important  persons  under  his  command,  a  low 
murmur,  caused  by  curiosity  and  expectation,  made 
itself  heard.  That  sound  oppressed  the  bosom  of  the 
young  man,  who  felt  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  in- 
fluence of  the  heavy  atmosphere  produced  by  the  breath 
of  many  persons  in  a  closed  hall.  His  senses,  accus- 
tomed to  the  pure  and  wholesome  air  from  the  sea, 
were  shocked  with  a  rapidity  that  proved  the  super- 
sensitiveness  of  his  organs.  A  horrible  palpitation, 
due  no  doubt  to  some  defect  in  the  organization  of  his 
heart,  shook  him  with  reiterated  blows  when  his  father, 
showing  himself  to  the  assemblage  like  some  majestic 
old  lion,  pronounced  in  a  solemn  voice  the  following 
brief  address :  — 

"  My  friends,  this  is  my  son  Etienne,  my  first-born 


The  Hated  Son.  377 

son,  my  heir  presumptive,  the  Due  de  Nivron,  to 
whom  the  king  will  no  doubt  grant  the  honors  of  his 
deceased  brother.  I  present  him  to  you  that  you  may 
acknowledge  him  and  obey  him  as  myself.  I  warn 
you  that  if  you,  or  any  one  in  this  province,  over 
which  I  am  governor,  does  aught  to  displease  the 
young  duke,  or  thwart  him  in  any  way  whatsoever,  it 
would  be  better,  should  it  come  to  my  knowledge,  that 
that  man  had  never  been  born.  You  hear  me.  Return 
now  to  your  duties,  and  God  guide  you.  The  obse- 
quies of  my  son  Maximilien  will  take  place  here  when 
his  body  arrives.  The  household  will  go  into  mourn- 
ing eight  days  hence.  Later,  we  shall  celebrate  the 
accession  of  my  son  Etienne  here  present." 

"Vive  monseigneur!  Long  live  the  race  of  Herou- 
ville !  "  cried  the  people  in  a  roar  that  shook  the 
castle. 

The  valets  brought  in  torches  to  illuminate  the  hall. 
That  hurrah,  the  sudden  lights,  the  sensations  caused 
by  his  father's  speech,  joined  to  those  he  was  already 
feeling,  overcame  the  young  man,  who  fainted  com- 
pletely and  fell  into  a  chair,  leaving  his  slender 
womanly  hand  in  the  broad  palm  of  his  father.  As 
the  duke,  who  had  signed  to  the  lieutenant  of  his  com- 
pany to  come  nearer,  saying  to  him,  "  I  am  fortunate, 
Baron  d'Artagnon,  in  being  able  to  repair  my  loss; 
behold  my  son  !  "  he  felt  an  icy  hand  in  his.  Turning 
round,  he  looked  at  the  new  Due  de  Nivron,  and, 
thinking  him  dead,  he  uttered  a  cry  of  terror  which 
appalled  the  assemblage. 

Beauvouloir  rushed  to  the  platform,  took  the  young 
man  in  his  arms,  and  carried  him  away,  saying  to  his 


378  The  Hated  Son. 

master,  "  You  have  killed  him  by  not  preparing  him 
for  this  ceremony." 

"  He  can  never  have  a  child  if  he  is  like  that !  " 
cried  the  duke,  following  Beauvouloir  into  the  seigno- 
rial  chamber,  where  the  doctor  laid  the  young  heir 
upon  the  bed. 

"  Well,  what  think  you?"  asked  the  duke  presently. 

"  It  is  not  serious,"  replied  the  old  physician,  show- 
ing Etienne,  who  was  now  revived  by  a  cordial,  a  few 
drops  of  which  he  had  given  him  on  a  bit  of  sugar,  a 
new  and  precious  substance  which  the  apothecaries 
wrere  selling  for  its  weight  in  gold. 

"  Take  this,  old  rascal !  "  said  the  duke,  offering  his 
purse  to  Beauvouloir,  "  and  treat  him  like  the  son  of 
a  king  !  If  he  dies  by  your  fault,  I  '11  burn  you  myself 
on  a  gridiron." 

"  If  you  continue  to  be  so  violent,  the  Due  de 
Nivron  will  die  by  your  own  act,"  said  the  doctor, 
roughly.      "Leave  him  now;    he  will  go  to  sleep." 

"Good-night,  my  love,"  said  the  old  man,  kissing 
his  son  upon  the  forehead. 

"  Good-night,  father,"  replied  the  youth,  whose  voice 
made  the  father  —  thus  named  by  Etienne  for  the  first 
time —  quiver. 

The  duke  took  Beauvouloir  by  the  arm  and  led  him 
to  the  next  room,  where,  having  pushed  him  into  the 
recess  of  a  window,  he  said  :  — 

"  Ah  ga/  old  rascal,  now  we  will  understand  each 
other." 

That  term,  a  favorite  sign  of  graciousness  with  the 
duke,  made  the  doctor,  no  longer  a  mere  bonesetter, 
smile. 


The  Hated  Son.  379 

"You  know,"  said  the  duke,  continuing,  "that  I 
wish  you  no  harm.  You  have  twice  delivered  my  poor 
Jeanne,  you  cured  my  son  Maximilien  of  an  illness,  in 
short,  you  are  a  part  of  my  household.  Poor  Maxi- 
milien !  I  will  avenge  him  ;  I  take  upon  myself  to  kill 
the  man  who  killed  him.  The  whole  future  of  the 
house  of  Herouville  is  now  in  your  hands.  You  alone 
can  know  if  there  is  in  that  poor  abortion  the  stuff  that 
can  breed  a  Herouville.  You  hear  me.  What  think 
you?" 

"  His  life  on  the  seashore  has  been  so  chaste  and  so 
pure  that  nature  is  sounder  in  him  than  it  would  have 
been  had  he  lived  in  your  world.  But  so  delicate  a 
body  is  the  very  humble  servant  of  the  soul.  Mon- 
seigneur  Etienne  must  himself  choose  his  wife ;  all 
things  in  him  must  be  the  work  of  nature  and  not  of 
your  will.  He  will  love  artlessly,  and  will  accomplish 
by  his  heart's  desire  that  which  you  wish  him  to  do 
for  the  sake  of  your  name.  But  if  you  give  your  son 
a  proud,  ungainly  woman  of  the  world,  a  great  lady,  he 
will  flee  to  his  rocks.  More  than  that ;  though  sudden 
terror  would  surely  kill  him,  I  believe  that  any  sudden 
emotion  would  be  equally  fatal.  My  advice  therefore 
is  to  leave  Etienne  to  choose  for  himself,  at  his  own 
pleasure,  the  path  of  love.  Listen  to  me,  monsei- 
gneur ;  you  are  a  great  and  powerful  prince,  but  you 
understand  nothing  of  such  matters.  Give  me  your 
entire  confidence,  your  unlimited  confidence,  and  you 
shal.1  have  a  grandson." 

"  If  I  obtain  a  grandson  by  any  sorcery  whatever, 
I  will  have  you  ennobled.  Yes,  difficult  as  it  may  be, 
I  '11  make  an  old  rascal  into  a  man  of  honor ;  you  shall 


380  The  Hated  Son. 

be  Baron  cle  Forcalier.  Employ  your  magic,  white  or 
black,  appeal  to  your  witches'  sabbath  or  the  novenas 
of  the  Church ;  what  care  I  how  't  is  done,  provided 
my  line  male  continues?" 

"  I  know,"  said  Beauvouloir,  "a  whole  chapter  of 
sorcerers  capable  of  destroying  your  hopes ;  they  are 
none  other  than  yourself,  mouseigneur.  I  know  you. 
To-day  you  want  male  lineage  at  any  price  ;  to-morrow 
you  will  seek  to  have  it  on  your  own  conditions ;  you 
will  torment  your  son." 

"  God  preserve  me  from  it !  " 

"  Well,  then,  go  away  from  here  ;  go  to  court,  where 
the  death  of  the  marechal  and  the  emancipation  of  the 
king  must  have  turned  everything  topsy  turvy,  and 
where  you  certainly  have  business,  if  only  to  obtain 
the  marshal's  baton  which  was  promised  to  you. 
Leave  Monseigneur  Etienne  to  me.  Bat  give  me  your 
word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman  to  approve  whatever  I 
may  do  for  him." 

The  duke  struck  his  hand  into  that  of  his  physician 
as  a  sign  of  complete  acceptance,  and  retired  to  his 
own  apartments. 

When  the  days  of  a  high  and  mighty  seigneur  are 
numbered,  the  physician  becomes  a  personage  of  im- 
portance in  the  household.  It  is,  therefore,  not  sur- 
prising to  see  a  former  bonesetter  so  familiar  with  the 
Due  d'Herouville.  Apart  from  the  illegitimate  ties 
which  connected  him,  by  marriage,  to  this  great  family 
and  certainly  militated  in  his  favor,  his  sound  good 
sense  had  so  often  been  proved  by  the  duke  that  the 
old  man  had  now  become  his  master's  most  valued 
counsellor.     Beauvouloir  was  theCoyctier  of  this  Louis 


The  Hated  Son.  381 

XL  Nevertheless,  and  no  matter  how  valuable  his 
knowledge  might  be,  he  never  obtained  over  the  gov- 
ernor of  Normandy,  in  whom  was  the  ferocity  of 
religious  warfare,  as  much  influence  as  feudality 
exercised  over  that  rugged  nature.  For  this  reason 
the  physician  was  confident  that  the  prejudices  of  the 
noble  would  thwart  the  desires  and  the  vows  of  the 
father. 


382  The  Hated  Son. 


V. 


GABRIELLE. 


Great  physician  that  he  was,  Beauvouloir  saw 
plainly  that  to  a  being  so  delicately  organized  as 
Etienne  marriage  must  come  as  a  slow  and  gentle  in- 
spiration, communicating  new  powers  to  his  being  and 
vivifying  it  with  the  fires  of  love.  As  he  had  said  to 
the  father,  to  impose  a  wife  on  Etienne  would  be  to 
kill  him.  Above  all  it  was  important  that  the  young 
recluse  should  not  be  alarmed  at  the  thought  of  mar- 
riage, of  which  he  knew  nothing,  or  be  made  aware 
of  the  object  of  his  father's  wishes.  This  unknown 
poet  conceived  as  yet  only  the  beautiful  and  noble 
passion  of  Petrarch  for  Laura,  of  Dante  for  Beatrice. 
Like  his  mother  he  was  all  pure  love  and  soul ;  the 
opportunity  to  love  must  be  given  to  him,  and  then 
the  event  should  be  awaited,  not  compelled.  A  com- 
mand to  love  would  have  dried  within  him  the  very 
sources  of  his  life. 

Maitre  Antoine  Beauvouloir  was  a  father ;  he  had  a 
daughter  brought  up  under  conditions  which  made  her 
the  wife  for  Etienne.  It  was  so  difficult  to  foresee 
the  events  which  would  make  a  son,  disowned  by  his 
father  and  destined  to  the  priesthood,  the  presump- 
tive heir  of  the  house  of  Herouville  that  Beauvouloir 
had  never  until  now  noticed  the  resemblance  between 


The  Hated  Son.  383 

the  fate  of  Etienne  and  that  of  G-abrielle.  A  sudden 
idea  which  now  came  to  him  was  inspired  more  by  his 
devotion  to  those  two  beings  than  by  ambition. 

His  wife,  in  spite  of  his  great  skill,  had  died  in  child- 
bed leaving  him  a  daughter  whose  health  was  so  frail 
that  it  seemed  as  if  the  mother  had  bequeathed  to  her 
fruit  the  germs  of  death.  Beauvouloir  loved  his 
Gabrielle  as  old  men  love  their  only  child.  His  sci- 
ence and  his  incessant  care  had  given  factitious  life  to 
this  frail  creature,  which  he  cultivated  as  a  florist  cul- 
tivates an  exotic  plant.  He  had  kept  her  hidden  from 
all  eyes  on  his  estate  of  Forcalier,  where  she  was  pro- 
tected against  the  dangers  of  the  time  bv  the  general 
good-will  felt  for  a  man  to  whom  all  owed  gratitude, 
and  whose  scientific  powers  inspired  in  the  ignorant 
minds  of  the  country-people  a  superstitious  awe. 

By  attaching  himself  to  the  house  of  Herouville, 
Beauvouloir  had  increased  still  further  the  immunity 
he  enjoyed  in  the  province,  and  had  thwarted  all  at- 
tempts of  his  enemies  by  means  of  his  powerful  influ- 
ence with  the  governor.  He  had  taken  care,  however, 
in  coming  to  reside  at  the  castle,  not  to  bring  with 
him  the  flower  he  cherished  in  secret  at  Forcalier,  a 
domain  more  important  for  its  landed  value  than  for 
the  house  then  upon  it,  but  with  which  he  expected  to 
obtain  for  his  daughter  an  establishment  in  conformity 
with  his  views.  While  promising  the  duke  a  posterity 
and  requiring  his  master's  word  of  honor  to  approve 
his  acts,  he  thought  suddenly  of  Gabrielle,  of  that 
sweet  child  whose  mother  had  been  neglected  and  for- 
gotten b}T  the  duke  as  he  had  also  neglected  and  for- 
gotten his  son  Etienne. 


384  The  Hated  Son. 

He  awaited  the  departure  of  his  master  before  put- 
ting his  plan  in  execution  ;  foreseeing  that,  if  the  duke 
became  aware  of  it,  the  enormous  difficulties  in  the 
way  would  be  from  the  first  insurmountable. 

Beauvouloir's  house  at  Forcalier  had  a  southern 
exposure  on  the  slope  of  one  of  those  gentle  hills 
which  surround  the  vales  of  Normandy ;  a  thick  wood 
shielded  it  from  the  north ;  high  walls  and  Norman 
hedges  and  deep  ditches  made  the  inclosure  inviolable. 
The  garden,  descending  by  an  easy  incline  to  the  river 
which  watered  the  valley,  had  a  thick  double  hedge  at 
its  foot,  forming  a  natural  embankment.  Within  this 
double  hedge  wound  a  hidden  path,  led  by  the  sinuosities 
of  the  stream,  which  the  willows,  oaks,  and  beeches 
made  as  leafy  as  a  woodland  glade.  From  the  house 
to  this  natural  rampart  stretched  a  mass  of  verdure 
peculiar  to  that  rich  soil ;  a  beautiful  green  sheet 
bordered  by  a  fringe  of  rare  trees,  the  tones  of  which 
formed  a  tapestry  of  exquisite  coloring :  there,  the 
silvery  tints  of  a  pine  stood  forth  against  the  darker 
green  of  several  alders ;  here,  before  a  group  of  sturdy 
oaks  a  slender  poplar  lifted  its  palm-like  figure,  ever 
swaying;  farther  on,  the  weeping  willows  drooped 
their  pale  foliage  between  the  stout,  round-headed 
walnuts.  This  belt  of  trees  enabled  the  occupants  of 
the  house  to  go  down  at  all  hours  to  the  river-bank 
fearless  of  the  rays  of  the  sun. 

The  facade  of  the  house,  before  which  lay  the  yellow 
ribbon  of  a  gravelled  terrace,  was  shaded  by  a  wooden 
gallery,  around  which  climbing  plants  were  twining, 
and  tossing  in  this  month  of  May  their  various  blossoms 
into  the  very  windows  of  the  second  floor.     Without 


The  Hated  Son.  385 

being  really  vast,  this  garden  seemed  immense  from  the 
manner  in  which  its  vistas  were  cut ;  points  of  view, 
cleverly  contrived  through  the  rise  and  fall  of  the 
ground,  married  themselves,  as  it  were,  to  those  of  the 
valley,  where  the  eye  could  rove  at  will.  Following 
the  instincts  of  her  thought,  Gabrielle  could  either  enter 
the  solitude  of  a  narrow  space,  seeing  naught  but  the 
thick  green  and  the  blue  of  the  sky  above  the  tree-tops, 
or  she  could  hover  above  a  glorious  prospect,  letting 
her  eyes  follow  those  many-shaded  green  lines,  from 
the  brilliant  colors  of  the  foreground  to  the  pure  tones 
of  the  horizon  on  which  they  lost  themselves,  some- 
times in  the  blue  ocean  of  the  atmosphere,  sometimes 
in  the  cumuli  that  floated  above  it. 

Watched  over  by  her  grandmother  and  served  by 
her  former  nurse,  Gabrielle  Beauvouloir  never  left  this 
modest  home  except  for  the  parish  church,  the  steeple 
of  which  could  be  seen  at  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
whither  she  was  always  accompanied  by  her  grand- 
mother, her  nurse,  and  her  father's  valet.  She  had 
reached  the  age  of  seventeen  in  that  sweet  ignorance 
which  the  rarity  of  books  allowed  a  girl  to  retain  with- 
out appearing  extraordinary  at  a  period  when  educated 
women  were  thought  phenomenal.  The  house  had 
been  to  her  a  convent,  but  with  more  freedom,  less 
enforced  prayer,  —  a  retreat  where  she  had  lived  be- 
neath the  eye  of  a  pious  old  woman  and  the  protection 
of  her  father,  the  only  man  she  had  ever  known.  This 
absolute  solitude,  necessitated  from  her  birth  by  the 
apparent  feebleness  of  her  constitution,  had  been  care- 
fully maintained  by  Beauvouloir. 

As  Gabrielle   grew  up,  such   constant  care  and  the 

25 


386  The  Hated  Son. 

parity  of  the  atmosphere  had  gradually  strengthened 
her  fragile  youth.  Still,  the  wise  physician  did  not 
deceive  himself  when  he  saw  the  pearly  tints  around 
his  daughter's  eyes  soften  or  darken  or  flush  according 
to  the  emotions  that  overcame  her ;  the  weakness  of 
the  body  and  the  strength  of  the  soul  were  made  plain 
to  him  in  that  one  indication  which  his  long  experience 
enabled  him  to  understand.  Besides  this,  Gabrielle's 
celestial  beauty  made  him  fearful  of  attempts  too 
common  in  times  of  violence  and  sedition.  Many 
reasons  had  thus  induced  the  good  father  to  deepen 
the  shadows  and  increase  the  solitude  that  surrounded 
his  daughter,  whose  excessive  sensibility  alarmed  him  ; 
a  passion,  an  assault,  a  shock  of  any  kind  might 
wound  her  mortally.  Though  she  seldom  deserved 
blame,  a  mere  word  of  reproach  overcame  iier ;  she 
kept  it  in  the  depths  of  her  heart,  where  it  fostered  a 
meditative  melancholy ;  she  would  turn  away  weeping, 
and  wept  long. 

Thus  the  moral  education  of  the  young  girl  required 
no  less  care  than  her  physical  education.  The  old 
physician  had  been  compelled  to  cease  telling  stories, 
such  as  all  children  love,  to  his  daughter ;  the  im- 
pressions she  received  were  too  vivid.  Wise  through 
long  practice,  he  endeavored  to  develop  her  body  in 
order  to  deaden  the  blows  which  a  soul  so  powerful 
gave  to  it.  Gabrielle  was  all  of  life  and  love  to  her 
father,  his  only  heir,  and  never  had  he  hesitated  to  pro- 
cure for  her  such  things  as  might  produce  the  results  he 
aimed  for.  He  carefully  removed  from  her  knowledge 
books,  pictures,  music,  all  those  creations  of  art  which 
awaken  thought.     Aided  by  his  mother  he  interested 


The  Hated  Son.  387 

Gabrielle  in  manual  exercises.  Tapestry,  sewing,  lace- 
making,  the  culture  of  flowers,  household  cares,  the 
storage  of  fruits,  in  short,  the  most  material  occu- 
pations of  life,  were  the  food  given  to  the  mind  of  this 
charming  creature.  Beauvouloir  brought  her  beauti- 
ful spinning-wheels,  finely-carved  chests,  rich  carpets, 
pottery  of  Bernard  de  Palissy,  tables,  prie-dieus, 
chairs  beautifully  wrought  and  covered  with  precious 
stuffs,  embroidered  linen  and  jewels.  With  an  instinct 
given  by  paternity,  the  old  man  always  chose  his 
presents  among  the  works  of  that  fantastic  order 
called  arabesque,  which,  speaking  neither  to  the  soul 
nor  the  senses,  addresses  the  mind  only  by  its  creations 
of  pure  fantasy. 

Thus  —  singular  to  say!  —  the  life  which  the  hatred  of 
a  father  had  imposed  on  Etienne  d'Herouville,  paternal 
love  had  induced  Beauvouloir  to  impose  on  Gabrielle. 
In  both  these  children  the  soul  was  killing  the  body ; 
and  without  an  absolute  solitude,  ordained  by  cruelty 
for  one  and  procured  by  science  for  the  other,  each 
was  likely  to  succumb,  —  he  to  terror,  she  beneath  the 
weight  of  a  too  keen  emotion  of  love.  But,  alas ! 
instead  of  being  born  in  a  region  of  gorse  and  moor, 
in  the  midst  of  an  arid  nature  of  hard  and  angular 
shapes,  such  as  all  the  great  painters  have  given  as 
backgrounds  to  their  Virgins,  Gabrielle  lived  in  a  rich 
and  fertile  valley.  Beauvouloir  could  not  destroy  the 
harmonious  grouping  of  the  native  woods,  the  graceful 
upspringing  of  the  wild  flowers,  the  cool  softness  of 
the  grassy  slopes,  the  love  expressed  in  the  intertwin- 
ing growth  of  the  clustering  plants.  Such  ever-living 
poesies  have  a  language  heard,  rather  than  understood 


388  The  Hated  Son. 

by  the  poor  girl,  who  yielded  to  vague  misery  among 
the  shadows.  Across  the  misty  ideas  suggested  by  her 
long  study  of  this  beautiful  landscape,  observed  at  all 
seasons  and  through  all  the  variations  of  a  marine 
atmosphere  in  which  the  fogs  of  England  come  to  die 
and  the  sunshine  of  France  is  born,  there  rose  within 
her  soul  a  distant  light,  a  dawn  which  pierced  the 
darkness  in  which  her  father  kept  her. 

Beauvouloir  had  never  withdrawn  his  daughter  from 
the  influence  of  Divine  love ;  to  a  deep  admiration  of 
nature  she  joined  her  girlish  adoration  of  the  Creator, 
springing  thus  into  the  first  way  open  to  the  feelings 
of  womanhood.  She  loved  God,  she  loved  Jesus,  the 
Virgin  and  the  saints ;  she  loved  the  Church  and  its 
pomps ;  she  was  Catholic  after  the  manner  of  Saint 
Teresa,  who  saw  in  Jesus  an  eternal  spouse,  a  continual 
marriage.  Gabrielle  gave  herself  up  to  this  passion  of 
strong  souls  with  so  touching  a  simplicity  that  she 
would  have  disarmed  the  most  brutal  seducer  by  the 
infantine  naivete  of  her  language. 

Whither  was  this  life  of  innocence  leading  Gabrielle? 
How  teach  a  mind  as  pure  as  the  water  of  a  tranquil 
lake,  reflecting  only  the  azure  of  the  skies?  What 
images  should  be  drawn  upon  that  spotless  canvas? 
Around  which  tree  must  the  tendrils  of  this  bind-weed 
twine?  No  father  has  ever  put  these  questions  to 
himself  without  an  inward  shudder. 

At  this  moment  the  good  old  man  of  science  was 
riding  slowly  on  his  mule  along  the  roads  from  Herou- 
ville  to  Ourscamp  (the  name  of  the  village  near  which 
the  estate  of  Forcalier  was  situated)  as  if  he  wished  to 
keep  that  way  unending.     The  infinite  love  he  bore  his 


The  Hated  Son.  389 

daughter  suggested  a  bold  project  to  his  mind.  One 
only  being  in  all  the  world  could  make  her  happy  ;  that 
man  was  Etienne.  Assuredly,  the  angelic  son  of 
Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin  and  the  guileless  daughter  of 
Gertrude  Marana  were  twin  beings.  All  other  women 
would  frighten  and  kill  the  heir  of  Herouville ;  and 
Gabrielle,  so  Beauvouloir  argued,  would  perish  by 
contact  with  any  man  in  whom  sentiments  and  external 
forms  had  not  the  virgin  delicacy  of  those  of  Etienne. 
Certainly  the  poor  physician  had  never  dreamed  of 
such  a  result ;  chance  had  brought  it  forward  and 
seemed  to  ordain  it.  But,  under  the  reign  of  Louis 
XIII.,  to  dare  to  lead  a  Due  d'Herouville  to  marry  the 
daughter  of  a  bonesetter ! 

And  yet,  from  this  marriage  alone  was  it  likely  that 
the  lineage  imperiously  demanded  by  the  old  duke 
would  result  ?  Nature  had  destined  these  two  rare 
beings  for  each  other ;  God  had  brought  them  together 
by  a  marvellous  arrangement  of  events,  while,  at  the 
same  time,  human  ideas  and  laws  placed  insuperable 
barriers  between  them.  Though  the  old  man  thought 
he  saw  in  this  the  finger  of  God,  and  although  he  had 
forced  the  duke  to  pass  his  word,  he  was  seized  with 
such  fear,  as  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the  violence  of 
that  ungovernable  nature,  that  he  returned  upon  his 
steps  when,  on  reaching  the  summit  of  the  hill  above 
Ourscamp,  he  saw  the  smoke  of  his  own  chimneys 
among  the  trees  that  enclosed  his  home.  Then,  chang- 
ing his  mind  once  more,  the  thought  of  the  illegitimate 
relationship  decided  him ;  that  consideration  might 
have  great  influence  on  the  mind  of  his  master.  Once 
decided,   Beauvouloir  had    confidence    in  the    chances 


390  The  Hated  Son. 

and  changes  of  life  ;  it  might  be  that  the  duke  would 
die  before  the  marriage  ;  besides,  there  were  many  ex- 
amples of  such  marriage :  a  peasant  girl  in  Dauphine, 
Francoise  Mignot,  had  lately  married  the  Marechal  de 
l'Hopital ;  the  son  of  the  Connetable  Anne  de  Mont- 
morency had  married  Diane,  daughter  of  Henri  II.  and 
a  Piedmontese  lady  named  Philippa  Due. 

During  this  mental  deliberation  in  which  paternal 
love  measured  all  probabilities  and  discussed  both 
the  good  and  the  evil  chances,  striving  to  foresee  the 
future  and  weighing  its  elements,  Gabrielle  was  walk- 
ing in  the  garden  and  gathering  flowers  for  the  vases 
of  that  illustrious  potter,  who  did  for  glaze  what 
Benvenuto  Cellini  did  for  metal.  Gabrielle  had  put 
one  of  these  vases,  decorated  with  animals  in  relief,  on 
a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  and  was  filling  it 
with  flowers  to  enliven  her  grandmother,  and  also,  per- 
haps, to  give  form  to  her  own  ideas.  The  noble  vase, 
of  the  pottery  called  Limoges,  was  filled,  arranged,  and 
placed  upon  the  handsome  table-cloth,  and  Gabrielle 
was  saying  to  her  grandmother,  "  See  !  "  when  Beau- 
vouloir  entered.  The  young  girl  ran  into  her  father's 
arms.  After  this  first  outburst  of  affection  she  wanted 
him  to  admire  her  bouquet;  but  the  old  man,  after 
glancing  at  it,  cast  a  long,  deep  look  at  his  daughter, 
which  made  her  blush. 

"  The  time  has  come,"  he  said  to  himself,  under- 
standing the  language  of  those  flowers,  each  of  which 
had  doubtless  been  studied  as  to  form  and  as  to  color, 
and  given  its  true  place  in  the  bouquet,  where  it  pro- 
duced its  own  magical  effect. 

Gabrielle  remained  standing,   forgetting   the  flower 


The  Hated  Son.  391 

begun  on  her  tapestry.  As  he  looked  at  his  daughter 
a  tear  rolled  from  Beauvouloir's  eyes,  furrowed  his 
cheeks  which  seldom  wore  a  serious  aspect,  and  fell 
upon  his  shirt,  which,  after  the  fashion  of  the  day,  his 
open  doublet  exposed  to  view  above  his  breeches.  He 
threw  off  his  felt  hat,  adorned  with  an  old  red  plume, 
in  order  to  rub  his  hand  over  his  bald  head.  Again 
he  looked  at  his  daughter,  who,  beneath  the  brown 
rafters  of  that  leather-hung  room,  with  its  ebon}7  furni- 
ture and  portieres  of  silken  damask,  and  its  tall  chim- 
ney-piece, the  whole  so  softly  lighted,  was  still  his 
very  own.  The  poor  father  felt  the  tears  in  his  eyes 
and  hastened  to  wipe  them.  A  father  who  loves  his 
daughter  longs  to  keep  her  alwa}Ts  a  child  ;  as  for  him 
who  can  without  deep  pain  see  her  fall  under  the  do- 
minion of  another  man,  he  does  not  rise  to  worlds 
superior,  he  falls  to  lowest  space. 

4 'What  ails  you,  my  son?"  said  his  old  mother, 
taking_off  her  spectacles,  and  seeking  the  cause  of  his 
silence  and  of  the  change  in  his  usually  joyous  manner. 

The  old  physician  signed  to  the  old  mother  to  look 
at  his  daughter,  nodding  his  head  with  satisfaction  as 
if  to  say,  "  How  sweet  she  is  !  " 

What  father  would  not  have  felt  Beauvouloir's  emo- 
tion on  seeing  the  young  girl  as  she  stood  there  in  the 
Norman  dress  of  that  period?  Gabrielle  wore  the  cor- 
set pointed  before  and  square  behind,  which  the  Italian 
masters  give  almost  invariably  to  their  saints  and  their 
madonnas.  This  elegant  corselet,  made  of  sky-blue  vel- 
vet, as  dainty  as  that  of  a  dragon-fly,  inclosed  the  bust 
like  a  guimpe  and  compressed  it,  delicately  modelling 
the  outline  it  seemed  to  flatten ;  it  moulded  the  shoul- 


392  The  Hated  Son. 

ders,  the  back,  the  waist,  with  the  precision  of  a  draw- 
ing made  by  an  able  draftsman,  ending  around  the 
neck  in  an  oblong  curve,  adorned  at  the  edges  with  a 
slight  embroidery  in  brown  silks,  leaving  to  view  as 
much  of  the  bare  throat  as  was  needed  to  show  the 
beauty  of  her  womanhood,  but  not  enough  to  awaken 
desire.  A  full  brown  skirt,  continuing  the  lines  al- 
ready drawn  by  the  velvet  waist,  fell  to  hef  feet  in  nar- 
row flattened  pleats.  Her  figure  was  so  slender  that 
Gabrielle  seemed  tall ;  her  arms  hung  pendent  with 
the  inertia  that  some  deep  thought  imparts  to  the  atti- 
tude. Thus  standing,  she  presented  a  living  model  of 
those  ingenuous  works  of  statuary  a  taste  for  which 
prevailed  at  that  period,  —  works  which  obtained  admi- 
ration for  the  harmony  of  their  lines,  straight  without 
stiffness,  and  for  the  firmness  of  a  design  which  did 
not  exclude  vitality.  No  swallow,  brushing  the  win- 
dow-panes at  dusk,  ever  conveyed  the  idea  of  greater 
elegance  of  outline. 

Gabrielle's  face  was  thin,  but  not  flat ;  on  her  neck 
and  forehead  ran  bluish  threads  showing  the  delicacy 
of  a  skin  so  transparent  that  the  flowing  of  the  blood 
through  her  veins  seemed  visible.  This  excessive  white- 
ness was  faintly  tinted  with  rose  upon  the  cheeks. 
Held  beneath  a  little  coif  of  sky-blue  velvet  embroid- 
ered with  pearls,  her  hair,  of  an  even  tone,  flowed  like 
two  rivulets  of  gold  from  her  temples  and  played  in 
ringlets  on  her  neck,  which  it  did  not  hide.  The  glow- 
ing color  of  those  silky  locks  brightened  the  dazzling 
whiteness  of  the  neck,  and  purified  still  further  by 
its  reflections  the  outlines  of  the  face  already  so  pure. 
The  eyes,  which  were  long  and  as  if  pressed  between 


The  Hated  Son.  393 

their  lids,  were  in  harmony  with  the  delicacy  of  the  head 
and  body ;  their  pearl-gray  tints  were  brilliant  without 
vivacity,  candid  without  passion.  The  line  of  the  nose 
might  have  seemed  cold,  like  a  steel  blade,  without  two 
rosy  nostrils,  the  movements  of  which  were  out  of 
keeping  with  the  chastity  of  that  dreamy  brow,  often 
perplexed,  sometimes  smiling,  but  always  of  an  au- 
gust serenity.  An  alert  little  ear  attracted  the  eye, 
peeping  beneath  the  coif  and  between  two  curls,  and 
showing  a  ruby  ear-drop,  the  color  of  which  stood  vig- 
orously out  on  the  milky  whiteness  of  the  neck.  This 
was  neither  Norman  beauty,  where  flesh  abounds,  nor 
Southern  beauty  where  passion  magnifies  matter,  nor 
French  beauty,  as  fugitive  as  its  own  expressions, 
nor  the  beauty  of  the  North,  cold  and  melancholy  as  the 
North  itself  —  it  was  the  deep  seraphic  beauty  of  the 
Catholic  Church,  supple  and  rigid,  severe  but  tender. 

"  Where  could  one  find  a  prettier  duchess?  "  thought 
Beauvouloir,  contemplating  his  daughter  with  delight. 
As  she  stood  there  slightly  bending,  her  neck  stretched 
out  to  watch  the  flight  of  a  bird  past  the  windows,  he 
could  only  compare  her  to  a  gazelle  pausing  to  listen 
for  the  ripple  of  the  water  where  she  seeks  to  drink. 

"  Come  and  sit  here,"  said  Beauvouloir,  tapping  his 
knee  and  making  a  sign  to  Gabrielle,  which  told  her  he 
had  something  to  whisper  to  her. 

Gabrielle  understood  him,  and  came.  She  placed 
herself  on  his  knee  with  the  lightness  of  a  gazelle,  and 
slipped  her  arm  about  his  neck,  ruffling  his  collar. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "what  were  you  thinking  of 
when  you  gathered  those  flowers?  You  have  never 
before  arranged  them  so  charmingly." 


394  The  Hated  Son. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  many  things,"  she  answered. 
"  Looking  at  the  flowers  made  for  us,  I  wondered 
whom  we  were  made  for ;  who  are  they  who  look  at 
us?  You  are  wise,  and  I  can  tell  you  what  I  think; 
you  know  so  much  you  can  explain  all.  I  feel  a  sort 
of  force  within  me  that  wants  to  exercise  itself ;  I 
struggle  against  something.  When  the  sky  is  gray  I 
am  half  content;  lam  sad,  but  I  am  calm.  When 
the  day  is  fine,  and  the  flowers  smell  sweet,  and  I 
sit  on  my  bench  down  there  among  the  jasmine  and 
honeysuckles,  something  rises  in  me,  like  waves  which 
beat  against  my  stillness.  Ideas  come  into  my  mind 
which  shake  me,  and  fly  away  like  those  birds  be- 
fore the  windows ;  I  cannot  hold  them.  Well,  when 
I  have  made  a  bouquet  in  which  the  colors  blend  like 
tapestry,  and  the  red  contrasts  with  white,  and  the 
greens  and  the  browns  cross  each  other,  when  all 
seems  so  abundant,  the  breeze  so  playful,  the  flowers 
so  many  that  their  fragrance  mingles  and  their  buds 
interlace,  —  well,  then  I  am  happy,  for  I  see  what  is 
passing  in  me.  At  church  when  the  organ  plays  and 
the  clergy  respond,  there  are  two  distinct  songs  speak- 
ing to  each  other,  —  the  human  voices  and  the  music. 
Well,  then,  too,  I  am  happy;  that  harmony  echoes  in 
my  breast.  I  pray  with  a  pleasure  which  stirs  my 
blood." 

While  listening  to  his  daughter,  Beauvouloir  exam- 
ined her  with  sagacious  eyes  ;  those  e}Tes  seemed  almost 
stupid  from  the  force  of  his  rushing  thoughts,  as  the 
water  of  a  cascade  seems  motionless.  He  raised  the 
veil  of  flesh  which  hid  the  secret  springs  by  which 
the  soul  reacts  upon  the  body  :  he  studied  the  diverse 


The  Hated  Son.  395 

symptoms  which  his  long  experience  had  noted  in  per- 
sons committed  to  his  care,  and  he  compared  them 
with  those  contained  in  this  frail  body,  the  bones  of 
which  frightened  him  by  their  delicacy,  as  the  milk- 
white  skin  alarmed  him  by  its  want  of  substance. 
He  tried  to  bring  the  teachings  of  his  science  to  bear 
upon  the  future  of  that  angelic  child,  and  he  was  dizzy 
in  so  doing,  as  though  he  stood  upon  the  verge  of  an 
abyss ;  the  too  vibrant  voice,  the  too  slender  bosom  of 
the  young  girl  filled  him  with  dread,  and  he  questioned 
himself  after  questioning  her. 

"You  suffer  here!"  he  cried  at  last,  driven  by  a 
last  thought  which  summed  up  his  whole  meditation. 

She  bent  her  head  gently. 

"By  God's  grace!  "  said  the  old  man,  with  a  sigh, 
"  I  will  take  you  to  the  Chateau  d'Herouville,  and  there 
you  shall  take  sea-baths  to  strengthen  you." 

"  Is  that  true,  father?  You  are  not  laughing  at  your 
little  Gabrielle?  I  have  so  longed  to  see  the  castle,  and 
the  men-at-arms,  and  the  captains  of  monseigneur." 

"  Yes,  my  daughter,  you  shall  really  go  there.  Your 
nurse  and  Jean  shall  accompany  you." 

"Soon?" 

"  To-morrow,"  said  the  old  man,  hurrying  into  the 
garden  to  hide  his  agitation  from  his  mother  and  his 
child. 

"  God  is  my  witness,"  he  cried  to  himself,  "  that  no 
ambitious  thought  impels  me.  My  daughter  to  save, 
poor  little  Etienne  to  make  happy,  —  those  are  my  only 
motives." 

If  he  thus  interrogated  himself  it  was  because,  in 
the  depths  of  his  consciousness,   he  felt  an   inextin- 


396  The  Hated  Son. 

guishable  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  the  success  of 
his  project  would  make  Gabrielle  some  day  the  Du- 
chesse  d'Herouville.  There  is  always  a  man  in  a  father. 
He  walked  about  a  long  time,  and  when  he  came  in  to 
supper  he  took  delight  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  in 
watching  his  daughter  in  the  midst  of  the  soft  brown 
poesy  with  which  he  had  surrounded  her ;  and  when, 
before  she  went  to  bed,  they  all  —  the  grandmother, 
the  nurse,  the  doctor,  and  Gabrielle  —  knelt  together 
to  say  their  evening  prayer,  he  added  the  words,  — 

"  Let  us  pray  to  God  to  bless  my  enterprise." 

The  eyes  of  the  grandmother,  who  knew  his  inten- 
tions, were  moistened  with  what  tears  remained  to  her. 
Gabrielle's  face  was  flushed  with  happiness.  The  father 
trembled,  so  much  did  he  fear  some  catastrophe. 

"  After  all,"  his  mother  said  to  him,  "  fear  not,  my 
son.     The  duke  would  never  kill  his  grandchild." 

"No,"  he  replied,  "but  he  might  compel  her  to 
marry  some  brute  of  a  baron,  and  that  would  kill 
her." 

The  next  day  Gabrielle,  mounted  on  an  ass,  followed 
by  her  nurse  on  foot,  her  father  on  his  mule,  and  a 
valet  who  led  two  horses  laden  with  baggage,  started 
for  the  castle  of  Herouville,  where  the  caravan  arrived 
at  nightfall.  In  order  to  keep  this  journey  secret, 
Beauvouloir  had  taken  by-roads,  starting  early  in  the 
morning,  and  had  brought  provisions  to  be  eaten  by 
the  way,  in  order  not  to  show  himself  at  hostelries. 
The  party  arrived,  therefore,  after  dark,  without  being 
noticed  by  the  castle  retinue,  at  the  little  dwelling  on 
the  seashore,  so  long  occupied  by  the  hated  son,  where 
Bertrand,  the  only  person  the  doctor  had  taken  into 


The  Hated  Son.  397 

his  confidence,  awaited  them.  The  old  retainer  helped 
the  nurse  and  valet  to  unload  the  horses  and  carry  in 
the  baggage,  and  otherwise  establish  the  daughter  of 
Beauvouloir  in  Etienne's  former  abode.  When  Ber- 
tram! saw  Gabrielle,  he  was  amazed. 

"  I  seem  to  see  madame  !  "  he  cried.  "  She  is  slim 
and  willowy  like  her ;  she  has  madame's  coloring  and 
the  same  fair  hair.  The  old  duke  will  surely  love 
her." 

"  God  grant  it!  "  said  Beauvouloir.  "  But  will  he 
acknowledge  his  own  blood  after  it  has  passed  through 
mine?  " 

"  He  can't  deny  it,"  replied  Bertrand.  "  I  often 
went  to  fetch  him  from  the  door  of  the  Belle  Romaine, 
who  lived  in  the  rue  Culture-Sainte-Catherine.  The 
Cardinal  cle  Lorraine  wras  compelled  to  give  her  up  to 
monseigneur,  out  of  shame  at  being  insulted  by  the 
mob  when  he  left  her  house.  Monseigneur,  who  in 
those  days  was  still  in  his  twenties,  will  remember  that 
affair ;  bold  he  was,  —  I  can  tell  it  now  —  he  led  the 
insulters !  " 

"He  never  thinks  of  the  past,"  said  Beauvouloir. 
"  He  knows  my  wife  is  dead,  but  I  doubt  if  he  remem- 
bers I  have  a  daughter." 

"  Two  old  navigators  like  you  and  me  ought  to  be 
able  to  bring  the  ship  to  port,"  said  Bertrand.  "  After 
all,  suppose  the  duke  does  get  angry  and  seize  our 
carcasses ;  they  have  served  their  time." 


398  The  Hated  Son. 


VI. 


LOVE. 


Before  starting  for  Paris,  the  Due  d'Herouville 
had  forbidden  the  castle  servants  under  heavy  pains 
and  penalties  to  go  upon  the  shore  where  Etienne  had 
passed  his  life,  unless  the  Due  de  Nivron  took  any  of 
them  with  him.  This  order,  suggested  by  Beauvouloir, 
who  had  shown  the  duke  the  wisdom  of  leaving  Etienne 
master  of  his  solitude,  guaranteed  to  Gabrielle  and  her 
attendants  the  inviolability  of  the  little  domain,  outside 
of  which  he  forbade  them  to  go  without  his  permission. 

Etienne  had  remained  during  these  two  days  shut 
up  in  the  old  seignorial  bedroom  under  the  spell  of  his 
tendei-est  memories.  In  that  bed  his  mother  had  slept ; 
her  thoughts  had  been  confided  to  the  furnishings  of 
that  room  ;  she  had  used  them  ;  her  eyes  had  often 
wandered  among  those  draperies  ;  how  often  she  had 
gone  to  that  window  to  call  with  a  cry,  a  sign,  her 
poor  disowned  child,  now  master  of  the  chateau. 
Alone  in  that  room,  whither  he  had  last  come  secretly, 
brought  by  Beauvouloir  to  kiss  his  dying  mother,  he 
fancied  that  she  lived  again  ;  he  spoke  to  her,  he  lis- 
tened to  her,  he  drank  from  that  spring  that  never  fail- 
eth,  and  from  which  have  flowed  so  many  songs  like 
the  Super  jlumina  Babylonis. 


The  Hated  Son.  399 

The  dav  after  Beauvouloir's  return  he  went  to  see 
his  young  master  and  blamed  him  gently  for  shutting 
himself  up  in  a  single  room,  pointing  out  to  him  the 
danger  of  leading  a  prison  life  in  place  of  his  former 
free  life  in  the  open  air. 

"But  this  air  is  vast,"  replied  Etienne.  u  The 
spirit  of  my  mother  is  in  it." 

The  physician  prevailed,  however,  by  the  gentle  in- 
fluence of  affection,  in  making  Etienne  promise  that  he 
would  go  out  every  day,  either  on  the  seashore,  or  in 
the  fields  and  meadows  which  were  still  unknown  to 
him.  In  spite  of  this,  Etienne,  absorbed  in  his  mem- 
ories, remained  yet  another  day  at  his  window  watch- 
ing the  sea,  which  offered  him  from  that  point  of  view 
aspects  so  various  that  never,  as  he  believed,  had  he 
seen  it  so  beautiful.  He  mingled  his  contemplations 
with  readings  in  Petrarch,  one  of  his  most  favorite 
authors,  —  him  whose  poesy  went  nearest  to  the  young 
man's  heart  through  the  constancy  and  the  unity  of  his 
love.  Etienne  had  not  within  him  the  stuff  for  sev- 
eral passions.  He  could  love  but  once,  and  in  one 
way  only.  If  that  love,  like  all  that  is  a  unit,  were 
intense,  it  must  also  be  calm  in  its  expression,  sweet 
and  pure  like  the  sonnets  of  the  Italian  poet. 

At  sunset  this  child  of  solitude  began  to  sing,  in  the 
marvellous  voice  which  had  entered  suddenly,  like  a 
hope,  into  the  dullest  of  all  ears  to  music,  —  those  of  his 
father.  He  expressed  his  melancholy  by  varying  the 
same  air,  which  he  repeated,  again  and  again,  like 
the  nightingale.  This  air,  attributed  to  the  late  King 
Henri  IV.,  was  not  the  so-called  air  of  "Gabrielle," 
but  something  far  superior  as  art,  as  rnelod}7,  as  the 


400  The  Hated  Son. 

expression  of  infinite  tenderness.  The  admirers  of 
those  ancient  tunes  will  recognize  the  words,  com- 
posed by  the  great  king  to  this  air,  which  were  taken, 
probably,  from  some  folk-song  to  which  his  cradle  had 
been  rocked  among  the  mountains  of  Beam. 

"Dawn,  approach, 

I  pray  thee  ; 
It  gladdens  me  to  see  thee; 

The  maiden 

Whom  I  love 
Is  rosy,  rosy  like  thee ; 

The  rose  itself, 

Dew-laden, 
Has  not  her  freshness ; 

Ermine  has  not 

Her  pureness  ; 

Lilies  have  not 

Her  whiteness." 

After  naively  revealing  the  thought  of  his  heart  in 
song,  Etienne  contemplated  the  sea,  saying  to  himself  : 
fc '  There  is  my  bride  ;  the  only  love  for  me  ! '  Then  he 
sang  two  other  lines  of  the  canzonet,  — 

"  She  is  fair 
Beyond  compare,"  — 

repeating  it  to  express  the  imploring  poesy  which 
abounds  in  the  heart  of  a  timid  young  man,  brave 
only  when  alone.  Dreams  were  in  that  undulating 
song,  sung,  resung,  interrupted,  renewed,  and  hushed 
at  last  in  a  final  modulation,  the  tones  of  which  died 
away  like  the  lingering  vibrations  of  a  bell. 

At  this  moment  a  voice,  which  he  fancied  was  that 
of  a  siren  rising  from  the  sea,  a  woman's  voice,  re- 


The  Rated  Son.  401 

peated  the  air  he  had  sung,  but  with  all  the  hesitations 
of  a  person  to  whom  music  is  revealed  for  the  first 
time.  He  recognized  the  stammering  of  a  heart  born 
into  the  poesy  of  harmony.  Etienne,  to  whom  long 
study  of  his  own  voice  had  taught  the  language  of 
sounds,  in  which  the  soul  finds  resources  greater  than 
speech  to  express  its  thoughts,  could  divine  the  timid 
amazement  that  attended  these  attempts.  With  what 
religious  and  subtile  admiration  had  that  unknown  be- 
ing listened  to  him  !  The  stillness  of  the  atmosphere 
enabled  him  to  hear  every  sound,  and  he  quivered  at  the 
distant  rustle  of  the  folds  of  a  gown.  He  was  amazed, 
—  he,  whom  all  emotions  produced  by  terror  sent  to 
the  verge  of  death  —  to  feel  within  him  the  healing, 
balsamic  sensation  which  his  mother's  coming;  bad 
formerly  brought  to  him. 

"Come,  Gabrielle,  my  child,"  said  the  voice  of 
Beauvouloir,  "  I  forbade  }tou  to  stay  upon  the  sea- 
shore after  sundown  ;  you  must  come  in,  my  daughter." 

"Gabrielle,"  said  Etienne  to  himself.  "Oh!  the 
pretty  name !  " 

Beauvouloir  presently  came  to  him,  rousing  his 
young  master  from  one  of  those  meditations  which 
resemble  dreams.  It  was  night,  and  the  moon  was 
rising. 

"  Monseigneur,"  said  the  physician,  "you  have  not 
been  out  to-day,  and  it  is  not  wise  of  you." 

"  And  I,"  replied  Etienne,  "can  /  go  on  the  sea- 
shore after  sundown?  " 

The  double  meaning  of  this  speech,  full  of  the 
gentle  playfulness  of  a  first  desire,  made  the  old  man 
smile. 

26 


402  The  Hated  Son. 

"  You  have  a  daughter,  Beauvouloir." 

"  Yes,  rnonseigneur,  —  the  child  of  my  old  age  ;  my 
darling  child.  Monseigneur,  the  duke,  your  father, 
charged  me  so  earnestly  to  watch  your  precious  health 
that,  not  being  able  to  go  to  Forcalier,  where  she  was, 
I  have  brought  her  here,  to  my  great  regret.  In  order 
to  conceal  her  from  all  eyes,  I  have  placed  her  in  the 
house  monseigneur  used  to  occupy.  She  is  so  delicate 
I  fear  everything,  even  a  sudden  sentiment  or  emotion. 
I  have  never  taught  her  anything ;  knowledge  would 
kill  her." 

"  She  knows  nothing  !  "  cried  Etienne,  surprised. 

"  She  has  all  the  talents  of  a  good  housewife,  but 
she  lias  lived  as  the  plants  live.  Ignorance,  monsei- 
gneur, is  as  sacred  a  thing  as  knowledge.  Knowledge 
and  ignorance  are  only  two  ways  of  living,  for  the 
human  creature.  Both  preserve  the  soul  and  envelop 
it ;  knowledge  is  your  existence,  but  ignorance  will  save 
my  daughter's  life.  Pearls  well-hidden  escape  the  diver, 
and  live  happy.  I  can  only  compare  my  Gabrielle  to 
a  pearl ;  her  skin  has  the  pearl's  translucence,  her  soul 
its  softness,  and  until  this  day  Forcalier  has  been  her 
fostering  shell." 

"Come  with  me,"  said  Etienne,  throwing  on  a 
cloak.  "  I  want  to  walk  on  the  seashore,  the  air  is  so 
soft." 

Beauvouloir  and  his  master  walked  in  silence  until 
they  reached  a  spot  where  a  line  of  light,  coming  from 
between  the  shutters  of  the  fisherman's  house,  had  fur- 
rowed the  sea  with  a  golden  rivulet. 

"  I  know  not  how  to  express,"  said  Etienne,  ad- 
dressing  his  companion,    "the   sensations  that  light, 


The  Hated  Son.  403 

cast  upon  the  water,  excites  in  me.  I  have  often 
watched  it  streaming  from  the  windows  of  that  room," 
he  added,  pointing  back  to  his  mother's  chamber, 
"  until  it  was  extinguished." 

"  Delicate  as  Gabrielle  is,"  said  Beauvouloir,  gayly, 
"  she  can  come  and  walk  with  us ;  the  night  is  warm, 
and  the  air  has  no  dampness.  I  will  fetch  her  ;  but  be 
prudent,  monseigneur." 

Etienne  was  too  timid  to  propose  to  accompauy 
Beauvouloir  into  the  house ;  besides,  he  was  in  that 
torpid  state  into  which  we  are  plunged  by  the  influx 
of  ideas  and  sensations  which  give  birth  to  the  dawn 
of  passion.  Conscious  of  more  freedom  in  being  alone, 
he  cried  out,  looking  at  the  sea  now  gleaming  in  the 
moonlight,  — 

"  The  Ocean  has  passed  into  my  soul !  " 
The  sight  of  the  lovely  living  statuette  which  was 
now  advancing  towards  him,  silvered  by  the  moon  and 
wrapped  in  its  light,  redoubled  the  palpitations  of  his 
heart,  but  without  causing  him  to  suffer. 

"  My  child,"  said  Beauvouloir,  "  this  is  monseigneur." 
In  a  moment  poor  Etienne  longed  for  his  father's 
colossal  figure ;  he  would  fain  have  seemed  strong, 
not  puny.  All  the  vanities  of  love  and  manhood  came 
into  his  heart  like  so  many  arrows,  and  he  remained  in 
gloomy  silence,  measuring  for  the  first  time  the  extent 
of  his  imperfections.  Embarrassed  by  the  salutation  of 
the  young  girl,  he  returned  it  awkwardly,  and  stayed 
beside  Beauvouloir,  with  whom  he  talked  as  they  paced 
along  the  shore ;  presently,  however,  Gabrielle's  timid 
and  deprecating  countenance  emboldened  him,  and  he 
dared  to  address  her.     The  incident  of  the  song  was 


404  The  Hated  Son. 

the  result  of  mere  chance.  Beauvouloir  had  intention- 
ally made  no  preparations ;  he  thought,  wisely,  that 
between  two  beings  in  whom  solitude  had  left  pure 
hearts,  love  would  arise  in  all  its  simplicity.  The  rep- 
etition of  the  air  by  Gabrielle  was  a  ready  text  on 
which  to  begin  a  conversation. 

During  this  promenade  Etienne  was  conscious  of 
that  bodily  buoyancy  which  all  men  have  felt  at  the 
moment  when  a  first  love  transports  their  vital  prin- 
ciple into  another  being.  He  offered  to  teach  Gabrielle 
to  sing.  The  poor  lad  was  so  glad  to  show  himself  to 
this  young  girl  invested  with  some  slight  superiority 
that  he  trembled  with  pleasure  when  she  accepted  his 
offer.  At  that  moment  the  moonlight  fell  full  upon 
her,  and  enabled  Stienne  to  note  the  points  of  her 
resemblance  to  his  mother,  the  late  duchess.  Like 
Jeanne  de  Saint-Savin,  Beauvouloir's  daughter  was 
slender  and  delicate ;  in  her,  as  in  the  duchess,  sad- 
ness and  suffering  conveyed  a  mysterious  charm.  She 
had  that  nobility  of  manner  peculiar  to  souls  on  whom 
the  ways  of  the  world  have  had  no  influence,  and  in 
whom  all  is  noble  because  all  is  natural.  But  in 
Gabrielle's  veins  there  was  also  the  blood  of  "la  belle 
Romaine,"  which  had  flowed  there  from  two  genera- 
tions, giving  to  this  young  girl  the  passionate  heart 
of  a  courtesan  in  an  absolutely  pure  soul ;  hence  the 
enthusiasm  that  sometimes  reddened  her  cheek,  sanc- 
tified her  brow,  made  her  exhale  her  soul  like  a  flash 
of  light,  and  communicated  the  sparkle  of  flame  to  all 
her  motions.  Beauvouloir  shuddered  when  he  noticed 
this  phenomenon,  which  we  may  call  in  these  da}^s  the 
phosphorescence  of  thought ;  the  old  physician  of  that 
period  regarded  it  as  the  precursor  of  death. 


The  Hated  Son.  405 

Hidden  beside  her  father,  Gabrielle  endeavored  to 
see  Etienne  at  her  ease,  and  her  looks  expressed  as 
much  curiosity  as  pleasure,  as  much  kindliness  as  in- 
nocent daring.  Etienne  detected  her  in  stretching  her 
neck  around  Beauvouloir  with  the  movement  of  a  timid 
bird  looking  out  of  its  nest.  To  her  the  young  man 
seemed  not  feeble,  but  delicate  ;  she  found  him  so  like 
herself  that  nothing  alarmed  her  in  this  sovereign  lord. 
Etienne's  sickly  complexion,  his  beautiful  hands,  his 
languid  smile,  his  hair  parted  in  the  middle  into  two 
straight  bands,  ending  in  curls  on  the  lace  of  his  large 
flat  collar,  his  noble  brow,  furrowed  with  youthful 
wrinkles,  —  all  these  contrasts  of  luxury  and  weak- 
ness, power  and  pettiness,  pleased  her ;  perhaps  they 
gratified  the  instinct  of  maternal  protection,  which  is 
the  germ  of  love  ;  perhaps,  also,  they  stimulated  the 
need  that  every  woman  feels  to  find  distinctive  signs 
in  the  man  she  is  prompted  to  love.  New  ideas,  new 
sensations  were  rising  in  each  with  a  force,  with  an 
abundance  that  enlarged  their  souls ;  both  remained 
silent  and  overcome,  for  sentiments  are  least  demon- 
strative when  most  real  and  deep.  All  durable  love 
begins  by  dreamy  meditation.  It  was  suitable  that 
these  two  beings  should  first  see  each  other  in  the 
softer  light  of  the  moon,  that  love  and  its  splendors 
might  not  dazzle  them  too  suddenly ;  it  was  well  that 
they  met  by  the  shores  of  the  Ocean,  — vast  image  of 
the  vastness  of  their  feelings.  They  parted  filled  with 
one  another,  fearing,  each,  to  have  failed  to  please. 

From  his  window  Etienne  watched  the  lights  of  the 
house  where  Gabrielle  was.  During  that  hour  of  hope 
mingled  with  fear,  the  young  poet  found  fresh  mean- 


406  The  Hated  Son. 

ings  in  Petrarch's  sonnets.  He  had  now  seen  Laura,  a 
delicate,  delightful  figure,  pure  and  glowing  like  a 
sunray,  intelligent  as  an  angel,  feeble  as  a  woman. 
His  twenty  years  of  study  found  their  meaning,  he  un- 
derstood the  mystic  marriage  of  all  beauties ;  he  per- 
ceived how  much  of  womanhood  there  was  in  the 
poems  he  adored  ;  in  short,  he  had  so  long  loved  un- 
consciously that  his  whole  past  now  blended  with 
the  emotions  of  this  glorious  night.  Gabrielle's 
resemblance  to  his  mother  seemed  to  him  an  order 
divinely  given.  He  did  not  betray  his  love  for  the  one 
in  loving  the  other ;  this  new  love  continued  her 
maternity.  He  contemplated  that  young  girl,  asleep 
in  the  cottage,  with  the  same  feelings  his  mother  had 
felt  for  him  when  he  wras  there.  Here,  again,  was  a 
similitude  which  bound  this  present  to  the  past.  On 
the  clouds  of  memory  the  saddened  face  of  his  mother 
appeared  to  him;  he  saw  once  more  her  feeble  smile, 
he  heard  her  gentle  voice ;  she  bowed  her  head  and 
wept.  The  lights  in  the  cottage  were  extinguished. 
Etienne  sang  once  more  the  pretty  canzonet,  with  a 
new  expression,  a  new  meaning.  From  afar  Gabrielle 
again  replied.  The  young  girl,  too,  was  making  her 
first  vo}rage  into  the  charmed  land  of  amorous  ecstasy. 
That  echoed  answer  filled  with  joy  the  young  man's 
heart ;  the  blood  flowing  in  his  veins  gave  him  a 
strength  he  never  yet  had  felt,  love  made  him  power- 
ful. Feeble  beings  alone  know  the  voluptuous  joy  of 
that  new  creation  entering  their  life.  The  poor,  the 
suffering,  the  ill-used,  have  joys  ineffable ;  small 
things  to  them  are  worlds.  Etienne  was  bound  by 
many    a   tie  to   the  dwellers  in  the  City  of  Sorrows. 


The  Hated  Son,  407 

His  recent  accession  to  grandeur  had  caused  him  terror 
only ;  love  now  shed  within  him  the  balm  that  created 
strength ;   he  loved  Love. 

The  next  day  Etienne  rose  earl}7  to  hasten  to  his 
old  house,  where  Gabrielle,  stirred  by  curiosity  and  an 
impatience  she  did  not  acknowledge  to  herself,  had 
already  curled  her  hair  and  put  on  her  prettiest  costume. 
Both  were  full  of  the  eager  desire  to  see  each  other  again, 
—  mutually  fearing  the  results  of  the  interview.  As  for 
Etienne,  he  had  chosen  his  finest  lace,  his  best-embroid- 
ered mantle,  his  violet-velvet  breeches ;  in  short,  those 
handsome  habiliments  which  we  connect  in  all  memoirs 
of  the  time  with  the  pallid  face  of  Louis  XIII.,  a  face 
oppressed  with  pain  in  the  midst  of  grandeur,  like 
that  of  Etienne.  Clothes  were  certainly  not  the  only 
point  of  resemblance  between  the  king  and  the  subject. 
Many  other  sensibilities  were  in  Etienne  as  in  Louis 
XIII., — -  chastity,  melancholy,  vague  but  real  sufferings, 
chivalrous  timidities,  the  fear  of  not  being  able  to  ex- 
press a  feeling  in  all  its  purity,  the  dread  of  too  quickly 
approaching  happiness,  which  all  great  souls  desire 
to  delay,  the  sense  of  the  burden  of  power,  that 
tendency  to  obedience  which  is  found  in  natures  in- 
different to  material  interests,  but  full  of  love  for  what 
a  noble  religious  genius  has  called  the  astral. 

Though  wholly  inexpert  in  the  ways  of  the  world, 
Gabrielle  was  conscious  that  the  daughter  of  a  doctor, 
the  humble  inhabitant  of  Forcalier,  was  cast  at  too 
great  a  distance  from  Monseigneur  Etienne,  Due  de 
Nivron  and  heir  of  the  house  of  Herouville,  to  allow 
them  to  be  equal ;  she  had  as  yet  no  conception  of  the 
ennobling  of  love.     The  naive  creature  thought  with  no 


408  The  Hated  Son. 

ambition  of  a  place  where  every  other  girl  would  have 
longed  to  seat  herself;  she  saw  "the  obstacles  only. 
Loving,  without  as  yet  knowing  what  it  was  to  love,  she 
only  felt  herself  distant  from  her  pleasure,  and  longed 
to  get  nearer  to  it,  as  a  child  longs  for  the  golden 
grapes  hanging  high  above  its  head.  To  a  girl  whose 
emotions  were  stirred  at  the  sight  of  a  flower,  and  who 
had  unconsciously  foreseen  love  in  the  chants  of  the 
liturgy,  how  sweet  and  how  strong  must  have  been  the 
feelings  inspired  in  her  breast  the  previous  night  by 
the  sight  of  the  young  seigneur's  feebleness,  which 
seemed  to  reassure  her  own.  But  during  the  night 
Etienne  had  been  magnified  to  her  mind  ;  she  had 
made  him  a  hope,  a  power;  she  had  placed  him  so 
high  that  now  she  despaired  of  ever  reaching  him. 

u  Will  you  permit  me  to  sometimes  enter  your 
domain?"  asked  the  duke,  lowering  his  eyes. 

Seeing  Etienne  so  timid,  so  humble,  —  for  he,  on  his 
part,  had  magnified  Beauvouloir's  daughter,  —  Gabrielle 
was  embarrassed  with  the  sceptre  he  placed  in  her  hands ; 
and  yet  she  was  profoundly  touched  and  flattered  by 
such  submission.  Women  alone  know  what  seduction 
the  respect  of  their  master  and  lover  has  for  them. 
Nevertheless,  she  feared  to  deceive  herself ,  and,  curious 
like  the  first  woman,  she  wanted  to  know  all. 

u  I  thought  you  promised  yesterday  to  teach  me 
music,"  she  answered,  hoping  that  music  might  be  made 
a  pretext  for  their  meetings. 

If  the  poor  child  had  known  what  Etienne's  life 
really  was,  she  would  have  spared  him  that  doubt. 
To  him  his  word  was  the  echo  of  his  mind,  and 
Gabrielle's  little  speech  caused  him  infinite  pain.      He 


The  Hated  Son.  409 

had  come  with  his  heart  full,  fearing  some  cloud  upon 
his  daylight,  and  he  met  a  doubt.  His  joy  was 
extinguished ;  back  into  his  desert  he  plunged,  no 
longer  finding  there  the  flowers  with  which  he  had 
embellished  it.  With  that  prescience  of  sorrows 
which  characterizes  the  angel  charged  to  soften  them 
—  who  is,  no  doubt,  the  Charity  of  heaven  — Gabrielle 
instantly  divined  the  pain  she  had  caused.  She  was  so 
vividly  aware  of  her  fault  that  she  prayed  for  the 
power  of  God  to  lay  bare  her  soul  to  Etienne,  for  she 
knew  the  cruel  pang  a  reproach  or  a  stern  look  was 
capable  of  causing ;  and  she  artlessly  betrayed  to  him 
these  clouds  as  they  rose  in  her  soul,  —  the  golden 
swathings  of  her  dawning  love.  One  tear  which 
escaped  her  eyes  turned  Etienne's  pain  to  pleasure, 
and  he  inwardly  accused  himself  of  tyranny.  It  was 
fortunate  for  botli  that  in  the  very  beginning  of  their 
love  they  should  thus  come  to  know  the  diapason  of 
their  hearts ;  they  avoided  henceforth  a  thousand 
shocks  which  might  have  wounded  them. 

Etienne,  impatient  to  intrench  himself  behind  an 
occupation,  led  Gabrielle  to  a  table  before  the  little 
window  at  which  he  himself  had  suffered  so  long,  and 
where  he  was  henceforth  to  admire  a  flower  more 
dainty  than  all  he  had  hitherto  studied.  Then  he 
opened  a  book  over  which  they  bent  their  heads  till 
their  hair  touched  and  mingled. 

These  two  beings,  so  strong  in  heart,  so  weak  in 
body,  but  embellished  by  all  the  graces  of  suffering, 
were  a  touching  sight.  Gabrielle  was  ignorant  of  co- 
quetry ;  a  look  was  given  the  instant  it  wras  asked  for, 
the  soft  rays  from  the  eyes  of  each  never  ceasing  to 


410  The  Hated  Son, 

mingle,  unless  from  modesty.  The  young  girl  took  the 
joy  of  telling  Etienne  what  pleasure  his  voice  gave  her 
as  she  listened  to  his  song  ;  she  forgot  the  meaning  of 
his  words  when  he  explained  to  her  the  position  of  the 
notes  or  their  value  ;  she  listened  to  Mm,  leaving  mel- 
ody for  the  instrument,  the  idea  for  the  form  ;  ingen- 
uous flattery  !  the  first  that  true  love  meets.  Gabrielle 
thought  Etienne  handsome ;  she  would  have  liked  to 
stroke  the  velvet  of  his  mantle,  to  touch  the  lace  of 
his  broad  collar.  As  for  Etienne  he  was  transformed 
under  the  creative  glance  of  those  earnest  eyes ;  they 
infused  into  his  being  a  fruitful  sap,  which  sparkled  in 
his  eyes,  shone  on  his  brow,  remade  him  inwardly,  so 
that  he  did  not  suffer  from  this  new  play  of  his  facul- 
ties ;  on  the  contrary  they  were  strengthened  by  it. 
Happiness  is  the  mother's  milk  of  a  new  life. 

As  nothing  came  to  distract  them  from  each  other, 
they  stayed  together  not  only  this  day  but  all  days ; 
for  they  belonged  to  one  another  from  the  first  hour, 
passing  the  sceptre  from  one  to  the  other  and  playing 
with  themselves  as  children  play  with  life.  Sitting, 
happy  and  content,  upon  the  golden  sands,  they  told 
each  other  their  past,  painful  for  him,  but  rich  in 
dreams ;  dreamy  for  her,  but  full  of  painful  pleasure. 

"I  never  had  a  mother,"  said  Gabrielle,  "but  my 
father  has  been  good  as  God  himself." 

"  I  never  had  a  father,"  said  the  hated  son,  "but 
my  mother  was  all  of  heaven  to  me." 

Etienne  related  his  youth,  his  love  for  his  mother, 
his  taste  for  flowers.  Gabrielle  exclaimed  at  his  last 
words.  Questioned  why,  she  blushed  and  avoided  an- 
swering ;   then  when  a  shadow  passed  across  that  brow 


The  Hated  Son.  411 

which  death  seemed  to  graze  with  its  pinion,  across 
that  visible  soul  where  the  young  man's  slightest  emo- 
tions showed,  she  answered  :  — 

"  Because  I  too  love  flowers." 

To  believe  ourselves  linked  far  back  in  the  past  by 
community  of  tastes,  is  not  that  a  declaration  of  love 
such  as  virgins  know  how  to  give?  Love  desires  to 
seem  old ;  it  is  a  coquetry  of  youth. 

Etienne  brought  flowers  on  the  morrow,  ordering  his 
people  to  find  rare  ones,  as  his  mother  had  done  in 
earlier  days  for  him.  Who  knows  the  depths  to  which 
the  roots  of  a  feeling  reach  in  the  soul  of  a  solitary 
being  thus  returning  to  the  traditions  of  mother-love 
in  order  to  bestow  upon  a  woman  the  same  caressing 
devotion  with  which  his  mother  had  charmed  his  life? 
To  him,  what  grandeur  in  these  nothings  wherein  were 
blended  his  only  two  affections.  Flowers  and  music 
thus  became  the  language  of  their  love.  Gabrielle  re- 
plied to  Etienne's  gifts  by  nosegays  of  her  own,  —  nose- 
gays which  told  the  wise  old  doctor  that  his  ignorant 
daughter  already  knew  enough.  The  material  igno- 
rance of  these  two  lovers  was  like  a  dark  background 
on  which  the  faintest  lines  of  their  all-spiritual  inter- 
course were  traced  with  exquisite  delicacy,  like  the 
red,  pure  outlines  of  Etruscan  figures.  Their  slight- 
est words  brought  a  flood  of  ideas,  because  each  was 
the  fruit  of  their  long  meditations.  Incapable  of  boldly 
looking  forward,  each  beginning  seemed  to  them  an 
end.  Though  absolutely  free,  they  were  imprisoned 
in  their  own  simplicity,  which  would  have  been  dis- 
heartening had  either  given  a  meaning  to  their  con- 
fused desires.      They   were   poets    and    poem   both. 


412  The  Hated  Son. 

Music,  the  most  sensual  of  arts  for  loving  souls,  was 
the  interpreter  of  their  ideas ;  they  took  delight  in 
repeating  the  same  harmony,  letting  their  passion  flow 
through  those  fine  sheets  of  sound  in  which  their  souls 
could  vibrate  without  obstacle. 

Many  loves  proceed  through  opposition ;  through 
quarrels  and  reconciliations,  the  vulgar  struggle  of 
mind  and  matter.  But  the  first  wing-beat  of  true  love 
sends  it  far  beyond  such  struggles.  Where  all  is  of 
the  same  essence,  two  natures  are  no  longer  to  be  dis- 
tinguished ;  like  genius  in  its  highest  expression,  such 
love  can  sustain  itself  in  the  brightest  light ;  it  grows 
beneath  the  light,  it  needs  no  shade  to  bring  it  into 
relief.  Gabrielle,  because  she  was  a  woman,  Etienne, 
because  he  had  suffered  much  and  meditated  much, 
passed  quickly  through  the  regions  occupied  by  com- 
mon passions  and  went  beyond  it.  Like  all  enfeebled 
natures,  they  were  quickly  penetrated  by  Faith,  by 
that  celestial  glow  which  doubles  strength  by  doubling 
the  soul.  For  them  their  sun  was  always  at  its  mer- 
idian. Soon  they  had  that  divine  belief  in  themselves 
which  allows  of  neither  jealousy  nor  torment ;  abnega- 
tion was  ever  ready,  admiration  constant. 

Under  these  conditions,  love  could  have  no  pain. 
Equal  in  their  feebleness,  strong  in  their  union,  if  the 
noble  had  some  superiority  of  knowledge  and  some 
conventional  grandeur,  the  daughter  of  the  physician 
eclipsed  all  that  by  her  beauty,  by  the  loftiness  of  her 
sentiments,  by  the  delicacy  she  gave  to  their  enjoy- 
ments. Thus  these  two  white  doves  flew  with  one 
wing  beneath  their  pure  blue  heaven ;  Etienne  loved, 
he  was  loved,  the  present  was  serene,  the  future  cloud- 


The  Hated  Son.  413 

less  ;  he  was  sovereign  lord  ;  the  castle  was  his,  the  sea 
belonged  to  both  of  them  ;  no  vexing  thought  troubled 
the  harmonious  concert  of  their  canticle ;  virginity  of 
mind  and  senses  enlarged  for  them  the  world,  their 
thoughts  rose  in  their  minds  without  effort ;  desire, 
the  satisfactions  of  which  are  doomed  to  blast  so 
much,  desire,  that  evil  of  terrestrial  love,  had  not  as 
yet  attacked  them.  Like  two  zephyrs  swaying  on  the 
same  willow-branch,  they  needed  nothing  more  than 
the  joy  of  looking  at  each  other  in  the  mirror  of  the 
limpid  waters  ;  immensity  sufficed  them  ;  they  admired 
their  Ocean,  without  one  thought  of  gliding  on  it  in 
the  white-winged  bark  with  ropes  of  flowers,  sailed  by 
Hope. 

Love  has  its  moment  when  it  suffices  to  itself,  when 
it  is  happy  in  merely  being.  During  this  springtime, 
when  all  is  budding,  the  lover  sometimes  hides  from 
the  beloved  woman,  in  order  to  enjoy  her  more,  to  see 
her  better  ;  but  Etienne  and  Gabrielle  plunged  together 
into  all  the  delights  of  that  infantine  period.  Some- 
times they  were  two  sisters  in  the  grace  of  their  con- 
fidences, sometimes  two  brothers  in  the  boldness  of 
their  questionings.  Usually  love  demands  a  slave  and  a 
god,  but  these  two  realized  the  dream  of  Plato,  —  they 
were  but  one  being  deified.  They  protected  each  other. 
Caresses  came  slowly,  one  by  one,  but  chaste  as  the 
merry  play  —  so  graceful,  so  coquettish  —  of  young 
animals.  The  sentiment  which  induced  them  to  ex- 
press their  souls  in  song  led  them  to  love  by  the  man- 
ifold transformations  of  the  same  happiness.  Their 
joys  caused  them  neither  wakefulness  nor  delirium. 
It  was  the  infancy  of  pleasure  developing  within  them, 


414  The  Hated  Son. 

unaware  of  the  beautiful  red  flowers  which  were  to 
crown  its  shoots.  They  gave  themselves  to  each  other, 
ignorant  of  all  danger ;  they  cast  their  whole  being 
into  a  word,  into  a  look,  into  a  kiss,  into  the  long, 
long  pressure  of  their  clasping  hands.  They  praised 
each  other's  beauties  ingenuously,  spending  treasures 
of  language  on  these  secret  idyls,  inventing  soft  exag- 
gerations and  more  diminutives  than  the  ancient  muse 
of  Tibullus,  or  the  poesies  of  Italy.  On  their  lips  and 
in  their  hearts  love  flowed  ever,  like  the  liquid  fringes 
of  the  sea  upon  the  sands  of  the  shore,  —  all  alike,  all 
dissimilar.     Joyous,  eternal  fidelity  ! 

If  we  must  count  by  days,  the  time  thus  spent  was 
five  months  only ;  if  we  may  count  by  innumerable 
sensations,  thoughts,  dreams,  glances,  opening  flowers, 
realized  hopes,  unceasing  joys,  speeches  interrupted, 
renewed,  abandoned,  frolic  laughter,  bare  feet  dab- 
bling in  the  sea,  hunts,  childlike,  for  shells,  kisses, 
surprises,  clasping  hands,  —  call  it  a  lifetime;  death 
will  justify  the  word.  There  are  existences  that  are 
ever  gloomy,  lived  under  ashen  skies  ;  but  suppose  a 
glorious  day,  when  the  sun  of  heaven  glows  in  the 
azure  air,  —  such  was  the  May  of  their  love,  during 
which  Etienne  had  suspended  all  his  griefs,  —  griefs 
which  had  passed  into  the  heart  of  Gabrielle,  who,  in 
turn,  had  fastened  all  her  joys  to  come  on  those  of  her 
lord.  Etienne  had  had  but  one  sorrow  in  his  life,  — 
the  death  of  his  mother ;  he  was  to  have  but  one  love 
—  Gabrielle. 


The  Hated  Son.  415 


VII. 

THE    CRUSHED    PEARL. 

The  coarse  rivalry  of  an  ambitious  man  hastened 
the  destruction  of  this  honeyed  life.  The  Due  d'He- 
rouville,  an  old  warrior  in  wiles  and  policy,  had  no 
sooner  passed  his  word  to  his  physician  than  he  was 
conscious  of  the  voice  of  distrust.  The  Baron  d'Ar- 
tagnon,  lieutenant  of  his  company  of  men-at-arms, 
possessed  his  utmost  confidence.  The  baron  was  a 
man  after  the  duke's  own  heart,  —  a  species  of  butcher, 
built  for  strength,  tall,  virile  in  face,  cold  and  harsh, 
brave  in  the  service  of  the  throne,  rude  in  his  manners, 
with  an  iron  will  in  action,  but  supple  in  manoeuvres, 
withal  an  ambitious  noble,  possessing  the  honor  of 
a  soldier  and  the  wiles  of  a  politician.  He  had  the 
hand  his  face  demanded,  — large  and  hairy  like  that  of 
a  guerilla ;  his  manners  were  brusque,  his  speech  con- 
cise. The  duke,  in  departing,  gave  to  this  man  the 
duty  of  watching  and  reporting  to  him  the  conduct  of 
Beauvouloir  toward  the  new  heir-presumptive. 

In  spite  of  the  secrecy  which  surrounded  Gabrielle, 
it  was  difficult  to  long  deceive  the  commander  of  a 
company.  He  heard  the  singing  of  two  voices ;  he 
saw  the  lights  at  night  in  the  dwelling  on  the  sea- 
shore ;  he  guessed  that  Etienne's  orders,  repeated  con- 
stantly, for  flowers  concerned  a  woman ;  he  discovered 


416  The  Hated  Son. 

Gabrielle's  nurse  making  her  way  on  foot  to  Forcalier, 
carrying  linen  or  clothes,  and  bringing  back  with  her 
the  work-frame  and  other  articles  needed  by  a  young 
lady.  The  spy  then  watched  the  cottage,  saw  the 
physician's  daughter,  and  fell  in  love  with  her.  Beau- 
vouloir  he  knew  was  rich.  The  duke  would  be  furious 
at  the  man's  audacity.  On  those  foundations  the  Baron 
d'Artagnon  erected  the  edifice  of  his  fortunes.  The 
duke,  on  learning  that  his  son  was  falling  in  love, 
would,  of  course,  instantly  endeavor  to  detach  him 
from  the  girl ;  what  better  way  than  to  force  her  into 
a  marriage  with  a  noble  like  himself,  giving  his  son  to 
the  daughter  of  some  great  house,  the  heiress  of  large 
estates.  The  baron  himself  had  no  property.  The 
scheme  was  excellent,  and  might  have  succeeded  with 
other  natures  than  those  of  Etienne  and  Gabrielle  ; 
with  them  failure  was  certain. 

During  his  stay  in  Paris  the  duke  had  avenged  the 
death  of  Maximilien  by  killing  his  son's  adversary, 
and  he  had  planned  for  Etienne  an  alliance  with  the 
heiress  of  a  branch  of  the  house  of  Grandlieu,  —  a  tall 
and  disdainful  beauty,  who  was  flattered  by  the  pros- 
pect of  some  day  bearing  the  title  of  Duchesse  d'He- 
rouville.  The  duke  expected  to  oblige  his  son  to  marry 
her.  On  learning  from  d'Artagnon  that  Etienne  was 
in  love  with  the  daughter  of  a  miserable  physician,  he 
was  only  the  more  determined  to  cany  out  the  mar- 
riage. What  could  such  a  man  comprehend  of  love, 
—  he  who  had  let  his  own  wife  die  beside  him  without 
understanding  a  single  sigh  of  her  heart?  Never,  per- 
haps, in  his  life  had  he  felt  such  violent  anger  as  when 
the   last  despatch  of   the    baron  told   him   with   what 


The  Hated  Son.  417 

rapidity  Beauvouloir's  plans  were  advancing,  —  the 
baron  attributing  them  wholly  to  the  bouesetter's  am- 
bition. The  duke  ordered  out  his  equipages  and  started 
for  Rouen,  bringing  with  him  the  Comtesse  de  Grand- 
lieu,  her  sister  the  Marquise  de  Noirmoutier,  and 
Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu,  under  pretext  of  showing 
them  the  province  of  Normandy. 

A  few  days  before  his  arrival  a  rumor  was  spread 
about  the  country  —  by  what  means  no  one  seemed  to 
know  —  of  the  passion  of  the  young  Due  de  Nivron  for 
Gabrielle  Beauvouloir.  People  in  Rouen  spoke  of  it  to 
the  Due  d'Herouville  in  the  midst  of  a  banquet  given 
to  celebrate  his  return  to  the  province ;  for  the  guests 
were  glad  to  deliver  a  blow  to  the  despot  of  Normandy. 
This  announcement  excited  the  anger  of  the  governor 
to  the  highest  pitch.  He  wrote  to  the  baron  to  keep 
his  coming  to  Herouville  a  close  secret,  giving  him 
certain  orders  to  avert  what  he  considered  to  be  an 
evil. 

It  was  under  these  circumstances  that  Etienne  and 
Gabrielle  unrolled  their  thread  through  the  labyrinth 
of  love,  where  both,  not  seeking  to  leave  it,  thought  to 
dwell.  One  day  they  had  remained  from  morn  to 
evening  near  the  window  where  so  many  events  had 
taken  place.  The  hours,  filled  at  first  with  gentle  talk, 
had  ended  in  meditative  silence.  They  began  to  feel 
within  them  the  wish  for  complete  possession ;  and 
presently  they  reached  the  point  of  confiding  to  each 
other  their  confused  ideas,  the  reflections  of  two  beau- 
tiful, pure  souls.  During  these  still,  serene  hours, 
Etienne's  eyes  would  sometimes  fill  with  tears  as  he  held 
the  hand  of  Gabrielle  to  his  lips.     Like  his  mother, 

27 


418  The  Hated  Son. 

but  at  this  moment  happier  in  his  love  than  she  had 
been  in  hers,  the  hated  son  looked  down  upon  the  sea, 
at  that  hour  golden  on  the  shore,  black  on  the  horizon, 
and  slashed  here  and  there  with  those  silvery  caps  which 
betoken  a  coming  storm.  Gabrielle,  conforming  to  her 
friend's  action,  looked  at  the  sight  and  was  silent.  A 
single  look,  one  of  those  by  which  two  souls  support 
each  other,  sufficed  to  communicate  their  thoughts. 
Each  loved  with  that  love  so  divinely  like  unto  itself 
at  every  instant  of  its  eternity  that  it  is  not  conscious 
of  devotion  or  sacrifice  or  exaction,  it  fears  neither  de- 
ceptions nor  delay.  But  Etienne  and  Gabrielle  were 
in  absolute  ignorance  of  satisfactions,  a  desire  for 
which  was  stirring  in  their  souls. 

When  the  first  faint  tints  of  twilight  drew  a  veil 
athwart  the  sea,  and  the  hush  was  interrupted  only 
by  the  soughing  of  the  flux  and  reflux  on  the  shore, 
Etienne  rose ;  Gabrielle  followed  his  motion  with  a 
vague  fear,  for  he  had  dropped  her  hand.  He  took 
her  in  one  of  his  arms,  pressing  her  to  him  with  a 
movement  of  tender  cohesion,  and  she,  comprehending 
his  desire,  made  him  feel  the  weight  of  her  body  enough 
to  give  him  the  certainty  that  she  was  all  his,  but  not 
enough  to  be  a  burden  on  him.  The  lover  laid  his 
head  heavily  on  the  shoulder  of  his  friend,  his  lips 
touched  the  heaving  bosom,  his  hair  flowed  over  the 
white  shoulders  and  caressed  her  throat.  The  girl, 
ingenuously  loving,  bent  her  head  aside  to  give  more 
place  for  his  head,  passing  her  arm  about  his  neck  to 
gain  support.  Thus  they  remained  till  nightfall  with- 
out uttering  a  word.  The  crickets  sang  in  their  holes, 
and  the  lovers  listened  to  that  music  as  if  to  employ 


The  Hated  Son.  419 

their  senses  on  one  sense  only.  Certainly  they  could 
only  in  that  hour  be  compared  to  angels  who,  with 
their  feet  on  earth,  await  the  moment  to  take  flight  to 
heaven.  They  had  fulfilled  the  noble  dream  of  Plato's 
mystic  genius,  the  dream  of  all  who  seek  a  meaning  in 
humanity ;  they  formed  but  one  soul,  they  were,  in- 
deed, that  mysterious  Pearl  destined  to  adorn  the  brow 
of  a  star  as  yet  unknown,  but  the  hope  of  all  ! 

"Will  you  take  me  home?  "  said  Gabrielle,  the  first 
to  break  the  exquisite  silence. 

"  Why  should  we  part?  "  replied  Etienne. 

"We  ought  to  be  together  always,"  she  said. 

"  Stay  with  me." 

"  Yes." 

The  heavy  step  of  Beauvouloir  sounded  in  the  ad- 
joining room.  The  doctor  had  seen  these  children 
at  the  window  locked  in  each  other's  arms,  but  he 
found  them  separated.  The  purest  love  demands  its 
mystery. 

"  This  is  not  right,  my  child,"  he  said  to  Gabrielle, 
"to  stay  so  late,  and  have  no  lights." 

"  Why  wrong?  "  she  said  ;  "  you  know  we  love  each 
other,  and  he  is  master  of  the  castle." 

"  My  children,"  said  Beauvouloir,  "  if  you  love  each 
other,  your  happiness  requires  that  you  should  marry 
and  pass  your  lives  together;  but  your  marriage  de- 
pends on  the  will  of  monseigneur  the  duke  —  " 

"  My  father  has  promised  to  gratify  all  my  wishes," 
cried  Etienne  eagerly,  interrupting  Beauvouloir. 

"  Write  to  him,  monseigneur,''  replied  the  doctor, 
and  give  me  your  letter  that  I  may  enclose  it  with  one 
which  I,   myself,   have  just  written.     Bertrand    is   to 


420  The  Hated  Son. 

start  at  once  to  put  these  despatches  into  monsei- 
gneur's  own  hand.  I  have  learned  to-night  that  he  is 
now  in  Rouen ;  he  has  brought  the  heiress  of  the  house 
of  Grandlieu  with  him,  not,  as  I  think,  solely  for  him- 
self. If  I  listened  to  my  own  presentiments,  I  should 
take  Gabrielle  away  from  here  this  very  night." 

"  Separate  us?"  cried  Etienne,  half  fainting  with 
distress  and  leaning  on  his  love. 
"Father!" 

"  Gabrielle,"  said  the  physician,  holding  out  to  her  a 
smelling-bottle  which  he  took  from  a  table  signing  to 
her  to  make  Etienne  inhale  its  contents,  —  "Gabrielle, 
my  knowledge  of  science  tells  me  that  Nature  destined 
you  for  each  other.  I  meant  to  prepare  monseigneur 
the  duke  for  a  marriage  which  will  certainly  offend  his 
ideas,  but  the  devil  has  already  prejudiced  him  against 
it.  Etienne  is  Due  de  Nivron,  and  you,  my  child,  are 
the  daughter  of  a  poor  doctor." 

"  My  father  swore  to  contradict  me  in  nothing," 
said  Etienue,  calmly. 

"He  swore  to  me  also  to  consent  to  all  I  might  do 
in  finding  you  a  wife,"  replied  the  doctor;   "but  sup- 
pose that  he  does  not  keep  his  promises  ?  " 
Etienne  sat  down,  as  if  overcome. 
"  The  sea  was  dark  to-night,"  he  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence. 

"  If  you  could  ride  a  horse,  monseigneur,"  said 
Beauvouloir,  "I  should  tell  you  to  fly  with  Gabrielle 
this  very  evening.  I  know  you  both,  and  I  know  that 
any  other  marriage  would  be  fatal  to  you.  The  duke 
would  certainly  fling  me  into  a  dungeon  and  leave  me 
there  for  the  rest  of  my  days  when  he  heard  of  your 


The  Hated  Son.  421 

flight;  and  I  should  die  joyfully  if  my  death  secured 
your  happiness.  But  alas !  to  mount  a  horse  would 
risk  your  life  and  that  of  Gabrielle.  We  must  face 
your  father's  auger  here." 

"  Here  !  "  repeated  Etienne. 

"  We  have  been  betrayed  by  some  one  in  the  chateau 
who  has  stirred  your  father's  wrath  against  us,"  con. 
tinued  Beauvouloir. 

"  Let  us  throw  ourselves  together  into  the  sea,"  said 
Etienne  to  Gabrielle,  leaning  down  to  the  ear  of  the 
young  girl  who  was  kneeling  beside  him. 

She  bowed  her  head,  smiling.  Beauvouloir  divined 
all. 

"  Monseigneur,"  he  said,  "your  mind  and  your 
knowledge  can  make  you  eloquent,  and  the  force  of 
your  love  may  be  irresistible.  Declare  it  to  monsei- 
gneur the  duke  ;  you  will  thus  confirm  my  letter.  All 
is  not  lost,  I  think.  I  love  my  daughter  as  well  as  you 
love  her,  and  I  shall  defend  her.'' 

Etienne  shook  his  head. 

"  The  sea  was  very  dark  to-night,"  he  repeated. 

"  It  was  like  a  sheet  of  gold  at  our  feet,"  said 
Gabrielle  in  a  voice  of  melody. 

Etienne  ordered  lights,  and  sat  down  at  a  table  to 
write  to  his  father.  On  one  side  of  him  knelt  Gabrielle, 
silent,  watching  the  words  he  wrote,  but  not  reading 
them ;  she  read  all  on  Etienne's  forehead.  On  his 
other  side  stood  old  Beauvouloir,  whose  jovial  coun- 
tenance was  deeply  sad,  —  sad  as  that  gloomy  chamber 
where  Etienne's  mother  died.  A  secret  voice  cried  to 
the  doctor,  "  The  fate  of  his  mother  awaits  him  ! ': 

When  the  letter  was  written,  Etienne  held  it  out  to 


422  The  Hated  Son. 

the  old  man,  who  hastened  to  give  it  to  Bertrand.  The 
old  retainer's  horse  was  waiting  in  the  courtyard,  sad- 
dled ;  the  man  himself  was  ready.  He  started,  and 
met  the  duke  twelve  miles  from  Herouville. 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  gate  of  the  courtyard/'  said 
Gabrielle  to  her  friend  when  they  were  alone. 

The  pair  passed  through  the  cardinal's  library,  and 
went  down  through  the  tower,  in  which  was  a  door, 
the  key  of  which  Etienne  had  given  to  Gabrielle. 
Stupefied  by  the  dread  of  coming  evil,  the  poor  youth 
left  in  the  tower  the  torch  he  had  brought  to  light  the 
steps  of  his  beloved,  and  continued  with  her  toward 
the  cottage.  A  few  steps  from  the  little  garden,  which 
formed  a  sort  of  flowery  courtyard  to  the  humble  habi- 
tation, the  lovers  stopped.  Emboldened  by  the  vague 
alarm  which  oppressed  them,  they  gave  each  other,  in 
the  shades  of  night,  in  the  silence,  that  first  kiss  in 
which  the  senses  and  the  soul  unite,  and  cause  a  re- 
vealing joy.  Etienne  comprehended  love  in  its  dual 
expression,  and  Gabrielle  fled  lest  she  should  be  drawn 
by  that  love  —  whither  she  knew  not. 

At  the  moment  when  the  Due  de  Nivron  reascended 
the  staircase  in  the  castle,  after  closing  the  door  of  the 
tower,  a  cry  of  terror,  uttered  by  Gabrielle,  echoed  in 
his  ears  with  the  sharpness  of  a  flash  of  lightning 
which  burns  the  eyes.  Etienne  ran  through  the  apart- 
ments of  the  chateau,  down  the  grand  staircase,  and 
along  the  beach  towards  Gabrielle's  house,  where  he 
saw  lights. 

When  Gabrielle,  quitting  her  lover,  had  entered  the 
little  garden,  she  saw,  by  the  gleam  of  a  torch  which 
lighted  her  nurse's  spinning-wheel,  the  figure  of  a  man 


The  Hated  Son.  423 

sitting  in  the  chair  of  that  excellent  woman.  At  the 
sound  of  her  steps  the  man  arose  and  came  toward  her  ; 
this  had  frightened  her,  and  she  gave  the  cry.  The 
presence  and  aspect  of  the  Baron  d'Artagnon  amply 
justified  the  fear  thus  inspired  in  the  young  girl's  breast. 

"  Are  you  the  daughter  of  Beauvouloir,  monsei- 
gneur's  physician  ?  '  asked  the  baron  when  Gabrielle's 
first  alarm  had  subsided. 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"  I  have  matters  of  the  utmost  importance  to  confide 
to  you.  I  am  the  Baron  d'Artagnon,  lieutenant  of  the 
company  of  men-at-arms  commanded  by  Monseigneur 
the  Due  d'Herouville." 

Gabrielle,  under  the  circumstances  in  which  she  and 
her  lover  stood,  was  struck  by  these  words,  and  by  the 
frank  tone  with  which  the  soldier  said  them. 

"  Your  nurse  is  there  ;  she  may  overhear  us.  Come 
this  way,"  said  the  baron. 

He  left  the  garden,  and  Gabrielle  followed  him  to 
the  beach  behind  the  house. 

"  Fear  nothing  !  "  said  the  baron. 

That  speech  would  have  frightened  any  one  less 
ignorant  than  Gabrielle ;  but  a  simple  young  girl  who 
loves  never  thinks  herself  in  peril. 

"  Dear  child,"  said  the  baron,  endeavoring  to  give  a 
honeyed  tone  to  his  voice,  "you  and  your  father  are 
on  the  verge  of  an  abyss  into  which  you  will  fall  to- 
morrow. I  cannot  see  your  danger  without  warning 
you.  Monseigneur  is  furious  against  your  father  and 
against  you ;  he  suspects  you  of  having  seduced  his 
son,  and  he  would  rather  see  him  dead  than  see  him 
marry  you ;  so  much  for  his  son.     As  for  your  father, 


424  The  Hated  Son. 

this  is  the  decision  monseigneur  has  made  about  him. 
Nine  years  ago  your  father  was  implicated  in  a  crim- 
inal affair.  The  matter  related  to  the  secretion  of  a 
child  of  rank  at  the  time  of  its  birth  which  he  attended. 
Monseigneur,  knowing  that  your  father  was  innocent, 
guaranteed  him  from  prosecution  by  the  parliament ; 
but  now  he  intends  to  have  him  arrested  and  delivered 
up  to  justice  to  be  tried  for  the  crime.  Your  father 
will  be  broken  on  the  wheel ;  though  perhaps,  in  view 
of  some  services  he  has  done  to  his  master,  he  may 
obtain  the  favor  of  being  hanged.  I  do  not  know  what 
course  monseigneur  has  decided  on  for  you  ;  but  I  do 
know  that  you  can  save  Monseigneur  de  Nivron  from 
his  father's  anger,  and  your  father  from  the  horrible 
death  which  awaits  him,  and  also  save  yourself." 

"  What  must  I  do?  "  said  Gabrielle. 

"Throw  yourself  at  monseigneur' s  feet,  and  tell 
him  that  his  son  lo^es  you  against  your  will,  and  say 
that  you  do  not  love  him.  In  proof  of  this,  offer  to 
marry  any  man  whom  the  duke  himself  may  select  as 
your  husband.  He  is  generous  ;  he  will  dower  you 
handsomely." 

"  I  can  do  all  except  deny  my  love." 

"  But  if  that  alone  can  save  your  father,  yourself, 
and  Monseigneur  de  Nivron  ?  " 

"  Etienne,"  she  replied,  "  would  die  of  it,  and  so 
should  I." 

"  Monseigneur  de  Nivron  will  be  unhappy  at  losing 
you,  but  he  will  live  for  the  honor  of  his  house ;  you 
will  resign  yourself  to  be  the  wife  of  a  baron  only, 
instead  of  being  a  duchess,  aud  your  father  will  live 
out  his  days,"  said  the  practical  man. 


The  Hated  Son.  425 

At  this  moment  Etienne  reached  the  house.  He  did 
not  see  Gabrielle,  and  he  uttered  a  piercing  cry. 

44  He  is  here!"  cried  the  young  girl;  "let  me  go 
now  and  comfort  him." 

"  I  shall  come  for  your  answer  to-morrow,"  said  the 
baron. 

44  I  will  consult  my  father,"  she  replied. 

"  You  will  not  see  him  again.  I  have  received  or- 
ders to  arrest  him  and  send  him  in  chains,  under  escort, 
to  Rouen,"  said  d'Artagnon,  leaving  Gabrielle  dumb 
with  terror. 

The  young  girl  sprang  to  the  house,  and  found 
Etienne  horrified  by  the  silence  of  the  nurse  in  answer 
to  his  question,  "  Where  is  she?  " 

44 1  am  here !  "  cried  the  young  girl,  whose  voice  was 
icy,  her  step  heavy,  her  color  gone. 

44  What  has  happened  ?  "  he  said.    44 1  heard  you  cry." 

44  Yes,  I  hurt  my  foot  against  —  " 

44  No,  love,"  replied  Etienne,  interrupting  her.  44I 
heard  the  steps  of  a  man." 

44  Etienne,  we  must  have  offended  God  ;  let  us  kneel 
down  and  pray.     I  will  tell  you  afterwards." 

Etienne  and  Gabrielle  knelt  down  at  the  prie-dieu, 
and  the  nurse  recited  her  rosary. 

44  O  God!"  prayed  the  girl,  with  a  fervor  which 
carried  her  beyond  terrestrial  space,  4  4  if  we  have  not 
sinned  against  thy  divine  commandments,  if  we  have 
not  offended  the  Church,  nor  yet  the  king,  we,  who 
are  one  and  the  same  being,  in  whom  love  shines  with 
the  light  that  thou  hast  given  to  the  pearl  of  the  sea, 
be  merciful  unto  us,  and  let  us  not  be  parted  either  in 
this  world  or  in  that  which  is  to  come." 


426  The  Hated  Son. 

"Mother!"  added  Etienne,  "who  art  in  heaven, 
obtain  from  the  Virgin  that  if  we  cannot  —  Gabrielle 
and  I  —  be  happy  here  below  we  may  at  least  die  to- 
gether, and  without  suffering.  Call  us,  and  we  will  go 
to  thee." 

Then,  having  recited  their  evening  prayers,  Gabrielle 
related  her  interview  with  Baron  d'Artagnon. 

"  Gabrielle,"  said  the  young  man,  gathering  strength 
from  his  despair,  "  I  shall  know  how  to  resist  my 
father." 

He  kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  but  not  again  upon 
the  lips.  Then  he  returned  to  the  castle,  resolved  to 
face  the  terrible  man  who  had  weighed  so  fearfully  on 
his  life.  He  did  not  know  that  Gabrielle's  house  would 
be  surrounded  and  guarded  by  soldiers  the  moment 
that  he  quitted  it. 

The  next  day  he  was  struck  down  with  grief  when, 
on  going  to  see  her,  he  found  her  a  prisoner.  But 
Gabrielle  sent  her  nurse  to  tell  him  she  would  die 
sooner  than  be  false  to  him ;  and,  moreover,  that  she 
knew  a  way  to  deceive  the  guards,  and  would  soon 
take  refuge  in  the  cardinal's  library,  where  no  one 
would  suspect  her  presence,  though  she  did  not  as  yet 
know  when  she  could  accomplish  it.  Etienne  on  that 
returned  to  his  room,  where  all  the  forces  of  his  heart 
were  spent  in  the  dreadful  suspense  of  waiting. 

At  three  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  that  day  the 
equipages  of  the  duke  and  suite  entered  the  courtyard 
of  the  castle.  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Grandlieu,  lean- 
ing on  the  arm  of  her  daughter,  the  duke  and  Marquise 
de  Noirmoutier  mounted  the  grand  staircase  in  silence, 
for  the  stern  brow  of  the  master  had  awed  the  servants. 


The  Hated  Son.  427 

Though  Baron  d'Artagnon  now  knew  that  Gabrielle 
had  evaded  his  guards,  he  assured  the  duke  she  was  a 
prisoner,  for  he  trembled  lest  his  own  private  scheme 
should  fail  if  the  duke  were  angered  by  this  flight. 
Those  two  terrible  faces  —  his  and  the  duke's  —  wore 
a  fierce  expression  that  was  ill-disguised  by  an  air  of 
gallantry  imposed  by  the  occasion.  The  duke  had 
already  sent  to  his  son,  ordering  him  to  be  present  in 
the  salon.  When  the  company  entered  it,  d'Artagnon 
saw  by  the  downcast  look  on  Etienne's  face  that  as 
yet  he  did  not  know  of  Gabrielle's  escape. 

"This  is  my  son,"  said  the  old  duke,  taking 
Etienne  by  the  hand  and  presenting  him  to  the 
ladies. 

Etienne  bowed  without  uttering  a  word.  The 
countess  and  Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu  exchanged  a 
look  which  the  old  man  intercepted. 

"Your  daughter  will  be  ill-matched — is  that  your 
thought?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  think  quite  the  contrary,  my  dear  duke,"  replied 
the  mother,  smiling. 

The  Marquise  de  Noirmoutier,  who  accompanied  her 
sister,  laughed  significantly.  That  laugh .  stabbed 
Etienne  to  the  heart;  already  the  sight  of  the  tall 
young  lady  had  terrified  him. 

"  Well,  Monsieur  le  due,"  said  the  duke  in  a  low 
voice  and  assuming  a  lively  air,  "  have  I  not  found  you 
a  handsome  wife  ?  What  do  you  say  to  that  slip  of  a 
girl,  my  cherub?" 

The  old  duke  never  doubted  his  son's  obedience ; 
Etienne,  to  him,  was  the  son  of  his  mother,  of  the 
same  dough,  docile  to  his  kneading. 


428  The  Hated  Son. 

"  Let  him  have  a  child  and  die,"  thought  the  old 
man;   "little  I  care." 

"  Father,"  said  the  young  man,  in  a  gentle  voice,  "  I 
do  not  understand  you." 

"  Come  into  your  own  room,  I  have  a  few  words  to 
say  to  you,"  replied  the  duke,  leading  the  way  into  the 
state  bedroom. 

Etienne  followed  his  father.  The  three  ladies,  stirred 
with  a  curiosity  that  was  shared  by  Baron  d'Artagnon, 
walked  about  the  great  salon  in  a  manner  to  group 
themselves  finally  near  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  which 
the  duke  had  left  partially  open. 

"  Dear  Benjamin,"  said  the  duke,  softening  his  voice, 
"  T  have  selected  that  tall  and  handsome  young  lady  as 
your  wife  ;  she  is  heiress  to  the  estates  of  the  younger 
branch  of  the  house  of  Grandlieu,  a  fine  old  family  of 
Bretagne.  Therefore  make  yourself  agreeable ;  re- 
member all  the  love-making  you  have  read  of  in  your 
books,  and  learn  to  make  pretty   speeches." 

"  Father,  is  it  not  the  first  duty  of  a  nobleman  to 
keep  his  word?  " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then,  on  the  day  when  I  forgave  you  the 
death  of  my  mother,  dying  here  through  her  marriage 
with  you,  did  you  not  promise  me  never  to  thwart  my 
wishes?  '  I  will  obey  you  as  the  family  god,'  were  the 
words  you  said  to  me.  I  ask  nothing  of  you,  I  simply 
demand  my  freedom  in  a  matter  which  concerns  my 
life  and  myself  only, — namely,  my  marriage." 

"  I  understood,"  replied  the  old  man,  all  the  blood 
in  his  body  rushing  into  his  face,  "  that  you  would  not 
oppose  the  continuation  of  our  noble  race." 


The  Hated  Son.  429 

"  You  made  no  condition,"  said  P^tienne.  "  I  do 
not  know  what  love  has  to  do  with  race ;  but  this  I 
know,  1  love  the  daughter  of  your  old  friend  Beau- 
vouloir,  and  the  granddaughter  of  your  friend  La  Belle 
Romaiue." 

"  She  is  dead,"  replied  the  old  colossus,  with  an  air 
both  savage  and  jeering,  which  told  only  too  plaiuly 
his  intention  of  making  away  with  her. 

A  moment  of  deep  silence  followed. 

The  duke  saw,  through  the  half-opened  door,  the 
three  ladies  and  d'Artagnon.  At  that  crucial  moment 
Etienne,  whose  sense  of  hearing  was  acute,  heard  in 
the  cardinal's  library  poor  Gabrielle's  voice,  singing,  to 
let  her  lover  know  she  was  there,  — 

"  Ermine  hath  not 
Her  pureness ; 
The  lily  not  her  whiteness." 

The  hated  son,  whom  his  father's  horrible  speech  had 
flung  into  a  gulf  of  death,  returned  to  the  surface  of 
life  at  the  sound  of  that  voice.  Though  the  emotion 
of  terror  thus  rapidly  cast  off  had  already  in  that 
instaut,  broken  his  heart,  he  gathered  up  his  strength, 
looked  his  father  in  the  face  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  gave  scorn  for  scorn,  and  said,  in  tones  of 
hatred :  — 

"  A  nobleman  ought  not  to  lie." 

Then  with  one  bound  he  sprang  to  the  door  of  the 
library  and  cried :  — 

"Gabrielle!" 

Suddenly  the  gentle  creature  appeared  among  the 
shadows,    like   the    lily   among   its    leaves,    trembling 


430  The  Hated  Son. 

before  those  mocking  women  thus  informed  of  Etienne's 
love.  As  the  clouds  that  bear  the  thunder  project 
upon  the  heavens,  so  the  old  duke,  reaching  a  degree 
of  anger  that  defies  description,  stood  out  upon  the 
brilliant  background  produced  by  the  rich  clothing  of 
those  courtly  dames.  Between  the  destruction  of  his 
son  and  a  mesalliance,  every  other  father  would  have 
hesitated,  but  in  this  uncontrollable  old  man  ferocity 
was  the  power  which  had  so  far  solved  the  difficulties 
of  life  for  him ;  he  drew  his  sword  in  all  cases,  as  the 
only  remedy  that  he  knew  for  the  gordian  knots  of  life. 
Under  present  circumstances,  when  the  convulsion  of 
his  ideas  had  reached  its  height,  the  nature  of  the  man 
came  uppermost.  Twice  detected  in  flagrant  falsehood 
by  the  being  he  abhorred,  the  son  he  cursed,  cursing 
him  more  than  ever  in  this  supreme  moment  when  that 
son's  despised,  and  to  him  most  despicable,  weakness 
triumphed  over  his  own  omnipotence,  infallible  till 
then,  the  father  and  the  man  ceased  to  exist,  the 
tiger  issued  from  its  lair.  Casting  at  the  angels 
before  him  —  the  sweetest  pair  that  ever  set  their 
feet  on  earth  —  a  murderous  look  of  hatred,  — 

"  Die,  then,  both  of  you!  "  he  cried.  "  You,  vile 
abortion,  the  proof  of  my  shame  —  and  you,"  he  said 
to  Gabrielle,  ''miserable  strumpet  with  the  viper 
tongue,  who  has  poisoned  my  house !  " 

These  words  struck  home  to  the  hearts  of  the 
two  children  the  terror  that  already  surcharged  them. 
At  the  moment  when  Etienne  saw  the  huge  hand 
of  his  father  raising  a  weapon  upon  Gabrielle  he 
died,  and  Gabrielle  fell  dead  in  striving  to  retain 
him. 


The  Hated  Son.  431 

The  old  man  left  them,  and  closed  the  door  violently, 
saying  to  Mademoiselle  de  Grandlieu  :  — 

"  I  will  marry  you  myself  !  " 

"You  are  young  and  gallant  enough  to  have  a 
fine  new  lineage,"  whispered  the  countess  in  the  ear 
of  the  old  man,  who  had  served  under  seven  kings  of 
France. 


MAlTRE   CORNELIUS. 


28 


MAITRE     CORNELIUS. 


To  Monsieur  le  Comte  Georges  Mniszech: 

Some  envious  being  may  think  on  seeing  this  page  illu- 
mined by  one  of  the  most  illustrious  of  Sarmatian  names, 
that  I  am  striving,  as  the  goldsmiths  do,  to  enhance  a  mod- 
ern work  with  an  ancient  jewel,  —  a  fancy  of  the  fashions  of 
the  day,  —  but  you  and  a  few  others,  dear  count,  will  know 
that  I  am  only  seeking  to  pay  my  debt  to  Talent,  Memory, 
and  Friendship. 


I. 

A   CHURCH    SCENE    OF    THE    FIFTEENTH    CENTURY. 

In  1479,  on  All  Saints'  day,  the  moment  at  which 
this  history  begins,  vespers  were  ending  in  the  cathe- 
dral of  Tours.  The  archbishop  Helie  de  Bourdeilles 
was  rising  from  his  seat  to  give  the  benediction  himself 
to  the  faithful.  The  sermon  had  been  long  ;  darkness 
had  fallen  during  the  service,  and  in  certain  parts  of 
the  noble  church  (the  towers  of  which  were  not  yet 
finished)  the  deepest  obscurity  prevailed.  Neverthe- 
less a  goodly  number  of  tapers  were  burning  in  honor 
of  the  saints  on  the  triangular  candle-trays  destined 
to  receive  such  pious  offerings,  the  merit  and  significa- 


436  Maitre  Cornelius. 

tion  of  which  have  never  been  sufficiently  explained. 
The  lights  on  each  altar  and  all  the  candelabra  in  the 
choir  were  burning.  Irregularly  shed  among  a  forest 
of  columns  and  arcades  which  supported  the  three 
naves  of  the  cathedral,  the  gleam  of  these  masses  of 
candles  barely  lighted  the  immense  building,  because 
the  strong  shadows  of  the  columns,  projected  among 
the  galleries,  produced  fantastic  forms  which  increased 
the  darkness  that  already  wrapped  in  gloom  the  arches, 
the  vaulted  ceilings,  and  the  lateral  chapels,  always 
sombre,  even  at  mid-day. 

The  crowd  presented  effects  that  were  no  less  pic- 
turesque. Certain  figures  were  so  vaguely  defined  in 
the  chiaroscuro  that  they  seemed  like  phantoms ; 
whereas  others,  standing  in  a  full  gleam  of  the  scat- 
tered light,  attracted  attention  like  the  principal  heads 
in  a  picture.  Some  statues  seemed  animated,  some  men 
seemed  petrified.  Here  and  there  eyes  shone  in  the 
flutings  of  the  columns,  the  floor  reflected  looks,  the 
marbles  spoke,  the  vaults  re-echoed  sighs,  the  edifice 
itself  seemed  endowed  with  life. 

The  existence  of  Peoples  has  no  more  solemn  scenes, 
no  moments  more  majestic.  To  mankind  in  the  mass, 
movement  is  needed  to  make  it  poetical ;  but  in  these 
hours  of  religious  thought,  when  human  riches  unite 
themselves  with  celestial  grandeur,  incredible  sublimi- 
ties are  felt  in  the  silence ;  there  is  fear  in  the  bended 
knees,  hope  in  the  clasping  hands.  The  concert  of 
feelings  in  which  all  souls  are  rising  heavenward  pro- 
duces an  inexplicable  phenomenon  of  spirituality.  The 
mystical  exaltation  of  the  faithful  reacts  upon  each  of 
them ;  the  feebler  are  no  doubt  borne  upward  by  the 


Maitre  Cornelius.  437 

waves  of  this  ocean  of  faith  and  love.  Prayer,  a 
power  electrical,  draws  our  nature  above  itself.  This 
involuntary  union  of  all  wills,  equally  prostrate  on  the 
earth,  equally  risen  into  heaven,  contains,  no  doubt, 
the  secret  of  the  magic  influence  wielded  by  the  chants 
of  the  priests,  the  harmonies  of  the  organ,  the  per- 
fumes and  the  pomps  of  the  altar,  the  voices  of  the 
crowd  and  its  silent  contemplations.  Consequently,  we 
need  not  be  surprised  to  see  in  the  middle-ages  so 
many  tender  passions  begun  in  churches  after  long 
ecstasies,  —  passions  ending  often  in  little  sanctity,  and 
for  which  women,  as  usual,  were  the  ones  to  do  pen- 
ance. Religious  sentiment  certainly  had,  in  those 
days,  an  affinity  with  love ;  it  was  either  the  motive 
or  the  end  of  it.  Love  was  still  a  religion,  with  its 
fine  fanaticism,  its  naive  superstitions,  its  sublime  de- 
votions, which  sympathized  with  those  of  Christianity. 
The  manners  of  that  period  will  also  serve  to  explain 
this  alliance  between  religion  and  love.  In  the  first 
place  society  had  no  meeting-place  except  before  the 
altar.  Lords  and  vassals,  men  and  women  were 
equals  nowhere  else.  There  alone  could  lovers  see 
each  other  and  communicate.  The  festivals  of  the 
Church  were  the  theatre  of  former  times ;  the  soul 
of  woman  was  more  keenly  stirred  in  a  cathedral 
than  it  is  at  a  ball  or  the  opera  in  our  day ;  and 
do  not  strong  emotions  invariably  bring  women  back 
to  love?  By  dint  of  mingling  with  life  and  grasp- 
ing it  in  all  its  acts  and  interests,  religion  had 
made  itself  a  sharer  of  all  virtues,  the  accomplice 
of  all  vices.  Religion  had  passed  into  science,  into 
politics,  into  eloquence,   into  crimes,  into  the  flesh  of 


438  Maitre  Cornelius. 

the  sick  man  and  the  poor  man  ;  it  mounted  thrones ; 
it  was  everywhere.  These  semi-learned  observations 
will  serve,  perhaps,  to  vindicate  the  truth  of  this  study, 
certain  details  of  which  may  frighten  the  perfected 
morals  of  our  age,  which  are,  as  everybody  knows,  a 
trifle  straitlaced. 

At  the  moment  when  the  chanting  ceased  and  the 
last  notes  of  the  organ,  mingling  with  the  vibrations  of 
the  loud  "  A-men"  as  it  issued  from  the  strong  chests 
of  the  intoning  clergy,  sent  a  murmuring  echo  through 
the  distant  arches,  and  the  hushed  assembly  were 
awaiting  the  beneficent  words  of  the  archbishop,  a 
burgher,  impatient  to  get  home,  or  fearing  for  his 
purse  in  the  tumult  of  the  crowd  when  the  worshippers 
dispersed,  slipped  quietly  away,  at  the  risk  of  being 
called  a  bad  Catholic.  On  which,  a  nobleman,  leaning 
against  one  of  the  enormous  columns  that  surround  the 
choir,  hastened  to  take  possession  of  the  seat  aban- 
doned by  the  worthy  Tourainean.  Having  done  so, 
he  quickly  hid  his  face  among  the  plumes  of  his  tall 
gray  cap,  kneeling  upon  the  chair  with  an  air  of  con- 
trition that  even  an  inquisitor  would  have  trusted. 

Observing  the  new-comer  attentively,  his  immediate 
neighbors  seemed  to  recognize  him ;  after  which  they 
returned  to  their  prayers  with  a  certain  gesture  by 
which  they  all  expressed  the  same  thought,  —  a  caus- 
tic, jeering  thought,  a  silent  slander.  Two  old  women 
shook  their  heads,  and  gave  each  other  a  glance  that 
seemed  to  dive  into  futurity. 

The  chair  into  which  the  young  man  had  slipped  was 
close  to  a  chapel  placed  between  two  columns  and 
closed  by  an  iron  railing.     It  was  customary  for  the 


Maitre  Cornelius.  439 

chapter  to  lease  at  a  handsome  price  to  seignorial  fam- 
ilies, and  even  to  rich  burghers,  the  right  to  be  present 
at  the  services,  themselves  and  their  servants  exclu- 
sively, in  the  various  lateral  chapels  of  the  long  side- 
aisles  of  the  cathedral.  This  simony  is  in  practice  to 
the  present  day.  A  woman  had  her  chapel  as  she  now 
has  her  opera-box.  The  families  who  hired  these  priv- 
ileged places  were  required  to  decorate  the  altar  of  the 
chapel  thus  conceded  to  them,  and  each  made  it  their 
pride  to  adorn  their  own  sumptuously,  — a  vanity  which 
the  Church  did  not  rebuke.  In  this  particular  chapel 
a  lady  was  kneeling  close  to  the  railing  on  a  handsome 
rug  of  red  velvet  with  gold  tassels,  precisely  opposite 
to  the  seat  vacated  by  the  burgher.  A  silver-gilt  lamp, 
hanging  from  the  vaulted  ceiling  of  the  chapel  before 
an  altar  magnificently  decorated,  cast  its  pale  light 
upon  a  prayer-book  held  by  the  lady.  The  book  trem- 
bled violently  in  her  hand  when  the  young  man  ap- 
proached her. 

"  A-men!" 

To  that  response,  sung  in  a  sweet  low  voice  which 
was  painfully  agitated,  though  happily  lost  in  the  gen- 
eral clamor,  she  added  rapidly  in  a  whisper :  — 

"  You  will  ruin  me." 

The  words  were  said  in  a  tone  of  innocence  which  a 
man  of  any  delicacy  ought  to  have  obeyed  ;  they  went 
to  the  heart  and  pierced  it.  But  the  stranger,  carried 
away,  no  doubt,  by  one  of  those  paroxysms  of  pas- 
sion which  stifle  conscience,  remained  in  his  chair  and 
raised  his  head  slightly  that  he  might  look  into  the 
chapel. 

"  He  sleeps !  "  he  replied,  in  so  low  a  voice  that  the 


440  Maitre  Cornelius, 

words  could  be  heard  by  the  young  woman  only,  as 
sound  is  heard  in  its  echo. 

The  lady  turned  pale ;  her  furtive  glance  left  for  a 
moment  the  vellum  page  of  the  prayer-book  and  turned 
to  the  old  man  whom  the  young  man  had  designated. 
What  terrible  complicity  was  in  that  glance?  When 
the  young  woman  had  cautiously  examined  the  old 
seigneur,  she  drew  a  long  breath  and  raised  her  fore- 
head, adorned  with  a  precious  jewel,  toward  a  picture 
of  the  Virgin ;  that  simple  movement,  that  attitude, 
the  moistened  glance,  revealed  her  life  with  imprudent 
naivete ;  had  she  been  wicked,  she  would  certainly 
have  dissimulated.  The  personage  who  thus  alarmed 
the  lovers  was  a  little  old  man,  hunchbacked,  nearly 
bald,  savage  in  expression,  and  wearing  a  long  and 
discolored  white  beard  cut  in  a  fan-tail.  The  cross 
of  Saint-Michel  glittered  on  his  breast ;  his  coarse, 
strong  hands,  covered  with  gray  hairs,  which  had  been 
clasped,  had  now  dropped  slightly  apart  in  the  slum- 
ber to  which  he  had  imprudently  yielded.  The  right 
hand  seemed  about  to  fall  upon  his  dagger,  the  hilt  of 
which  was  in  the  form  of  an  iron  shell.  By  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  had  placed  the  weapon,  this  hilt  was 
directly  under  his  hand  ;  if,  unfortunately,  the  hand 
touched  the  iron,  he  would  wake,  no  doubt,  instantly, 
and  glance  at  his  wife.  His  sardonic  lips,  his  pointed 
chin  aggressively  pushed  forward,  presented  the  char- 
acteristic signs  of  a  malignant  spirit,  a  sagacity  coldly 
cruel,  that  would  surely  enable  him  to  divine  all  be- 
cause he  suspected  everything.  His  yellow  forehead 
was  wrinkled  like  those  of  men  whose  habit  it  is  to 
believe    nothing,  to  weigh   all  things,   and  who,    like 


Maitre  Cornelius.  441 

misers  chinking  their  gold,  search  out  the  meaning 
and  the  value  of  human  actions.  His  bodily  frame, 
though  deformed,  was  bony  and  solid,  and  seemed 
both  vigorous  and  excitable ;  in  short,  you  might  have 
thought  him  a  stunted  ogre.  Consequently,  an  inevi- 
table danger  awaited  the  young  lady  whenever  this 
terrible  seigneur  woke.  That  jealous  husband  would 
surely  not  fail  to  see  the  difference  between  a  worthy 
old  burgher  who  gave  him  no  umbrage,  and  the  new- 
comer, young,  slender,  and  elegant. 

"  Libera  nos   a  malo,"   she   said,    endeavoring  to 
make  the  young  man  comprehend  her  fears. 

The  latter  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  Tears 
were  in  his  eyes ;  tears  of  love  and  of  despair.  At 
sight  of  them  the  lady  trembled  and  betrayed  herself. 
Both  had,  no  doubt,  long  resisted  and  could  resist  no 
longer  a  love  increasing  day  by  day  through  invincible 
obstacles,  nurtured  by  terror,  strengthened  by  youth. 
The  lady  was  moderately  handsome ;  but  her  pallid 
skin  told  of  secret  sufferings  that  made  her  interest- 
ing. She  had,  moreover,  an  elegant  figure,  and  the 
finest  hair  in  the  world.  Guarded  by  a  tiger,  she 
risked  her  life  in  whispering  a  word,  accepting  a  look, 
and  permitting  a  mere  pressure  of  the  hand.  Love 
may  never  have  been  more  deeply  felt  than  in  those 
hearts,  never  more  delightfully  enjoyed,  but  certainly 
no  passion  was  ever  more  perilous.  It  was  easy  to 
divine  that  to  these  two  beings  air,  sound,  foot-falls, 
etc.,  things  indifferent  to  other  men,  presented  hidden 
qualities,  peculiar  properties  which  they  distinguished. 
Perhaps  their  love  made  them  find  faithful  interpreters 
in  the  icy  hands  of  the  old  priest  to  whom  they  con- 


442  Maitre  Cornelius. 

fessed  their  sins,  and  from  whom  they  received  the 
Host  at  the  holy  table.  Love  profound  !  love  gashed 
into  the  soul  like  a  scar  upon  the  body  which  we  carry 
through  life !  When  these  two  young  people  looked  at 
each  other,  the  woman  seemed  to  say  to  her  lover, 
"  Let  us  love  each  other  and  die!"  To  which  the 
young  knight  answered,  "  Let  us  love  each  other  and 
not  die."  In  reply,  she  showed  him  with  a  sign  her 
old  duenna  and  two  pages.  The  duenna  slept ;  the 
pages  were  young  and  seemingly  careless  of  what 
might  happen,  either  of  good  or  evil,  to  their  masters. 

"  Do  not  be  frightened  as  you  leave  the  church ;  let 
yourself  be  managed." 

The  young  nobleman  had  scarcely  said  these  words 
in  a  low  voice,  when  the  hand  of  the  old  seigneur 
dropped  upon  the  hilt  of  his  dagger.  Feeling  the  cold 
iron  he  woke,  and  his  yellow  eyes  fixed  themselves  in- 
stantly on  his  wife.  By  a  privilege  seldom  granted 
even  to  men  of  genius,  he  awoke  with  his  mind  as 
clear,  his  ideas  as  lucid  as  though  he  had  not  slept  at 
all.  The  man  had  the  mania  of  jealousy.  The  lover, 
with  one  eye  on  his  mistress,  had  watched  the  husband 
with  the  other,  and  he  now  rose  quickly,  effacing  him- 
self behind  a  column  at  the  moment  when  the  hand  of 
the  old  man  fell ;  after  which  he  disappeared,  swiftly 
as  a  bird.  The  lady  lowered  her  eyes  to  her  book  and 
tried  to  seem  calm  ;  but  she  could  not  prevent  her  face 
from  blushing  and  her  heart  from  beating  with  unnat- 
ural violence.  The  old  lord  saw  the  unusual  crimson 
on  the  cheeks,  forehead,  even  the  eyelids  of  his  wife. 
He  looked  about  him  cautiously,  but  seeing  no  one  to 
distrust,  he  said  to  his  wife :  — 


Maitre  Cornelius.  443 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  my  dear?  " 

"The  smell  of  the  incense  turns  me  sick,"  she 
replied. 

"  Is  it  particularly  bad  to-day?"  he  asked. 

In  spite  of  this  sarcastic  query,  the  wily  old  man 
pretended  to  believe  in  this  excuse ;  but  he  suspected 
some  treachery  and  he  resolved  to  watch  his  treasure 
more  carefully  than  before. 

The  benediction  was  given.  Without  waiting  for 
the  end  of  the  Scecula  sceculorum,  the  crowd  rushed 
like  a  torrent  to  the  doors  of  the  church.  Following 
his  usual  custom,  the  old  seigneur  waited  till  the  gen- 
eral hurry  was  over ;  after  which  he  left  his  chapel, 
placing  the  duenna  and  the  youngest  page,  carrying  a 
lantern,  before  him ;  then  he  gave  his  arm  to  his  wife 
and  told  the  other  page  to  follow  them. 

As  he  made  his  way  to  the  lateral  door  which  opened 
on  the  west  side  of  the  cloister,  through  which  it  was 
his  custom  to  pass,  a  stream  of  persons  detached  itself 
from  the  flood  which  obstructed  the  great  portals,  and 
poured  through  the  side  aisle  around  the  old  lord  and 
his  party.  The  mass  was  too  compact  to  allow  him 
to  retrace  his  steps,  and  he  and  his  wife  were  therefore 
pushed  onward  to  the  door  by  the  pressure  of  the  mul- 
titude behind  them.  The  husband  tried  to  pass  out 
first,  dragging  the  lady  by  the  arm,  but  at  that  instant 
he  was  pulled  vigorously  into  the  street,  and  his  wife 
was  torn  from  him  by  a  stranger.  The  terrible  hunch- 
back saw  at  once  that  he  had  fallen  into  a  trap  that 
was  cleverly  prepared.  Repenting  himself  for  having 
slept,  he  collected  his  whole  strength,  seized  his  wife 
once  more  by  the  sleeve  of  her  gown,  and  strove  with 


444  Maitre  Cornelius. 

his  other  hand  to  cling  to  the  gate  of  the  church  ;  but 
the  ardor  of  love  carried  the  day  against  jealous  fury. 
The  young  man  took  his  mistress  round  the  waist,  and 
carried  her  off  so  rapidly,  with  the  strength  of  despair, 
that  the  brocaded  stuff  of  silk  and  gold  tore  noisily 
apart,  and  the  sleeve  alone  remained  in  the  hand  of 
the  old  man.  A  roar  like  that  of  a  lion  rose  louder 
than  the  shouts  of  the  multitude,  and  a  terrible  voice 
howled  out  the  words  :  — 

"  To  me,  Poitiers  !  Servants  of  the  Comte  de  Saint- 
Vallier,  here  !     Help  !  help  !  " 

And  the  Comte  Aymar  de  Poitiers,  sire  de  Saint- 
Vallier,  attempted  to  draw  his  sword  and  clear  a  space 
around  him.  But  he  found  himself  surrounded  and 
pressed  upon  by  forty  or  fifty  gentlemen  whom  it 
would  be  dangerous  to  wound.  Several  among  them, 
especially  those  of  the  highest  rank,  answered  him  with 
jests  as  they  dragged  him  along  the  cloisters. 

With  the  rapidity  of  lightning  the  abductor  carried 
the  countess  into  an  open  chapel  and  seated  her  behind 
the  confessional  on  a  wooden  bench.  By  the  light 
of  the  tapers  burning  before  the  saint  to  whom  the 
chapel  was  dedicated,  they  looked  at  each  other  for 
a  moment  in  silence,  clasping  hands,  and  amazed  at 
their  own  audacity.  The  countess  had  not  the  cruel 
courage  to  reproach  the  young  man  for  the  boldness 
to  which  they  owed  this  perilous  and  only  instant  of 
happiness. 

"  Will  you  fly  with  me  into  the  adjoining  States  ?'; 
said  the  young  man,  eagerly.  "Two  English  horses 
are  awaiting  us  close  by,  able  to  do  thirty  leagues  at  a 
stretch." 


Maitre  Cornelius.  445 

"  Ah !  "  she  cried,  softly,  "in  what  corner  of  the 
world  could  you  hide  a  daughter  of  King  Louis  XI.  ?  " 

"  True,"  replied  the  young  man,  silenced  by  a  diffi- 
culty he  had  not  foreseen. 

"Why  did  you  tear  me  from  my  husband?"  she 
asked  in  a  sort  of  terror. 

"  Alas  !  "  said  her  lover,  "  I  did  not  reckon  on  the 
trouble  I  should  feel  in  being  near  you,  in  hearing  you 
speak  to  me.  I  have  made  plans,  — two  or  three  plans, 
—  and  now  that  I  see  you  all  seems  accomplished." 

"  But  I  am  lost !  "  said  the  countess. 

"  We  are  saved  !  "  the  young  man  cried  in  the  blind 
enthusiasm  of  his  love.     u  Listen  to  me  carefully  !  " 

"  This  will  cost  me  my  life!  "  she  said,  letting  the 
tears  that  rolled  in  her  eyes  flow  down  her  cheeks. 
"  The  count  will  kill  me,  —  to-night  perhaps  !  But  go 
to  the  king ;  tell  him  the  tortures  that  his  daughter  has 
endured  these  five  years.  He  loved  me  well  when  I 
was  little  ;  he  called  me  '  Marie-full-of-grace,'  because 
I  was  ugly.  Ah  !  if  he  knew  the  man  to  whom  he  gave 
me,  his  anger  would  be  terrible.  I  have  not  dared 
complain,  out  of  pity  for  the  count.  Besides,  how  could 
I  reach  the  king?  My  confessor  himself  is  a  spy  of 
Saint- Vallier.  That  is  why  I  have  consented  to  this 
guilty  meeting,  to  obtain  a  defender,  —  some  one  to 
tell  the  truth  to  the  king.  Can  I  rely  on  —  Oh!  "  she 
cried,  turning  pale  and  interrupting  herself,  "  here 
comes  the  page  !  " 

The  poor  countess  put  her  hands  before  her  face  as 
if  to  veil  it. 

"  Fear  nothing,"  said  the  young  seigneur,  "  he  is 
won !     You  can  safely  trust  him  ;   he  belongs  to  me. 


446  Maitre  Cornelius. 

When  the  count  contrives  to  return  for  you  he  will 
warn  us  of  his  coming.  In  the  confessional,"  he 
added,  in  a  low  voice,  "  is  a  priest,  a  friend  of  mine, 
who  will  tell  him  that  he  drew  you  for  safety  out  of 
the  crowd,  and  placed  you  under  his  own  protection 
in  this  chapel.  Therefore,  everything  is  arranged  to 
deceive  him." 

At  these  words  the  tears  of  the  poor  woman  stopped, 
but  an  expression  of  sadness  settled  clown  on  her  face. 

"  No  one  can  deceive  him,"  she  said.  "  To-night 
he  will  know  all.  Save  me  from  his  blows !  Go  to 
Plessis,  see  the  king,  tell  him  —  "  she  hesitated  ;  then, 
some  dreadful  recollection  giving  her  courage  to  con- 
fess the  secrets  of  her  marriage,  she  added:  "Yes, 
tell  him  that  to  master  me  the  count  bleeds  me  in  both 
arms  —  to  exhaust  me.  Tell  him  that  my  husband 
drags  me  about  by  the  hair  of  my  head.  Say  that  I 
am  a  prisoner ;  that  —  " 

Her  heart  swelled,  sobs  choked  her  throat,  tears  fell 
from  her  eyes.  In  her  agitation  she  allowed  the  young 
man,  who  was  muttering  broken  words,  to  kiss  her 
hands. 

"Poor  darling!  no  one  can  speak  to  the  king. 
Though  my  uncle  is  grand-master  of  his  archers,  I 
could  not  gain  admission  to  Plessis.  My  dear  lady ! 
my  beautiful  sovereign !  oh,  how  she  has  suffered ! 
Marie,  let  yourself  say  but  two  words,  or  we  are  lost !  ' 

"  What  will  become  of  us?  "  she  murmured.  Then, 
seeing  on  the  dark  wall  a  picture  of  the  Virgin,  on 
which  the  light  from  the  lamp  was  falling,  she  cried 
out :  — 

u  Holy  Mother  of  God,  give  us  counsel  !  " 


Maitre  Cornelius.  447 

"  To-night,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  shall  be  with 
you  in  your  room." 

"  How?  "  she  asked  naively. 

They  were  in  such  great  peril  that  their  tenderest 
words  were  devoid  of  love. 

"  This  evening,"  he  replied,  "  I  shall  offer  myself  as 
apprentice  to  Maitre  Cornelius,  the  king's  silversmith. 
I  have  obtained  a  letter  of  recommendation  to  him 
which  will  make  him  receive  me.  His  house  is  next  to 
yours.  Once  under  the  roof  of  that  old  thief,  I  can 
soon  find  my  way  to  your  apartment  by  the  help  of  a 
silken  ladder." 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said,  petrified  with  horror,  "  if  you  love 
me  don't  go  to  Maitre  Cornelius." 

"Ah!"  he  cried,  pressing  her  to  his  heart  with  all 
the  force  of  his  youth,  "  you  do  indeed  love  me  !•" 

"  Yes,"  she  said  ;  "  are  you  not  my  hope?  You  are 
a  geutlemau,  and  I  confide  to  you  my  honor.  Besides," 
she  added,  looking  at  him  with  dignity,  "  I  am  so 
unhappy  that  you  would  never  betray  my  trust.  But 
what  is  the  good  of  all  this?  Go,  let  me  die,  sooner 
than  that  you  should  enter  that  house  of  Maitre  Cor- 
nelius.    Do  you  not  know  that  all  his  apprentices  —  " 

"  Have  been  hanged,"  said  the  young  man,  laughing. 

"  Oh,  don't  go  ;  you  will  be  made  the  victim  of  some 
sorcery." 

"  1  cannot  pay  too  dearly  for  the  joy  of  serving 
you,"  he  said,  with  a  look  that  made  her  drop  her 
eyes. 

"But  my  husband?"  she  said. 

"Here  is  something  to  put  him  to  sleep,"  replied 
her  lover,  drawing  from  his  belt  a  little  vial. 


448  Maitre  Cornelius. 

"  Not  for  always?  "  said  the  countess,  trembling. 

For  all  answer  the  young  seigneur  made  a  gesture  of 
horror. 

"  I  would  loner  as;o  have  defied  him  to  mortal  com- 
bat  if  he  were  not  so  old,"  he  said.  "  God  preserve 
me  from  ridding  you  of  him  in  any  other  way." 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  the  countess,  blushing.  "  I  am 
cruelly  punished  for  my  sins.  In  a  moment  of  despair 
I  thought  of  killing  him,  and  I  feared  you  might  have 
the  same  desire.  My  sorrow  is  great  that  I  have  never 
yet  been  able  to  confess  that  wicked  thought ;  but 
I  fear  it  would  be  repeated  to  him  and  he  would 
avenge  it.  I  have  shamed  you,"  she  continued,  dis- 
tressed by  his  silence,    "I  deserve  your  blame." 

And  she  broke  the  vial  by  flinging  it  on  the  floor 
violently. 

"Do  not  come,"  she  said,  "my  husband  sleeps 
lightly ;  my  duty  is  to  wait  for  the  help  of  Heaven  — 
that  will  I  do !  " 

She  tried  to  leave  the  chapel. 

"  Ah!  "  cried  the  young  man,  "  order  me  to  do  so 
and  I  will  kill  him.     You  will  see  me  to-night." 

"  I  was  wise  to  destroy  that  drug,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
that  was  faint  with  the  pleasure  of  finding  herself  so 
loved.  "The  fear  of  awakening  my  husband  will 
save  us  from  ourselves." 

"  I  pledge  you  my  life,"  said  the  young  man,  press- 
ins:  her  hand. 

"  If  the  king  is  willing,  the  pope  can  annul  my 
marriage.  We  will  then  be  united,"  she  said,  giving 
him  a  look  that  was  full  of  delightful  hopes. 

"  Monseigneur  comes!  "  cried  the  page,  rushing  in. 


Maitre  Cornelius.  449 

Instantly  the  young  nobleman,  surprised  at  the  short 
time  he  had  gained  with  his  mistress  and  wondering 
greatly  at  the  celerity  of  the  count,  snatched  a  kiss, 
which  was  not  refused. 

k' To-night!"  he  said,  slippiug  hastily  from  the 
chapel. 

Thanks  to  the  darkness,  he  reached  the  great  portal 
safely,  gliding  from  column  to  column  in  the  long 
shadows  which  they  cast  athwart  the  nave.  An  old 
canon  suddenly  issued  from  the  confessional,  came  to 
the  side  of  the  countess  and  closed  the  iron  railing 
before  which  the  page  was  marching  gravely  up  and 
down  with  the  air  of  a  watchman. 

A  strong  light  now  announced  the  coming  of  the 
count.  Accompanied  by  several  friends  and  by 
servants  bearing  torches,  he  hurried  forward,  a 
naked  sword  in  hand.  His  gloomy  eyes  seemed  to 
pierce  the  shadows  and  to  rake  even  the  darkest 
corners  of  the  cathedral. 

"  Monseigneur,  madame  is  there,"  said  the  page, 
going  forward  to  meet  him. 

The  Comte  de  Saint- Vallier  found  his  wife  kneeling 
on  the  steps  of  the  altar,  the  old  priest  standing  beside 
her  and  reading  his  breviary.  At  that  sight  the  count 
shook  the  iron  railing  violently  as  if  to  give  vent  to  his 
rage. 

"  What  do  you  want  here,  with  a  drawn  sword  in  a 
church  ?  "  asked  the  priest. 

"  Father,  that  is  my  husband,"  said  the  countess. 

The  priest  took  a  key  from  his  sleeve,  and  unlocked 
the  railed  door  of  the  chapel.  The  count,  almost  in 
spite  of  himself,  cast  a  look  into  the  confessional,  then 

29 


450  Maitre  Cornelius. 

he  entered  the  chapel,  and  seemed  to  be  listening  at- 
tentively to  the  sounds  in  the  cathedral. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  his  wife,  "you  owe  many  thanks 
to  this  venerable  canon,  who  gave  me  a  refuge  here." 

The  count  turned  pale  with  anger ;  he  dared  not 
look  at  his  friends,  who  had  come  there  more  to  laugh 
at  him  than  to  help  him.     Then  he  answered  curtly  : 

"  Thank  God,  father,  I  shall  find  some  way  to  repay 
you." 

He  took  his  wife  by  the  arm  and,  without  allowing 
her  to  finish  her  curtsey  to  the  canon,  he  signed  to  his 
servants  and  left  the  church  without  a  word  to  the 
others  who  had  accompanied  him.  His  silence  had 
something  savage  and  sullen  about  it.  Impatient  to 
reach  his  home  and  preoccupied  in  searching  for 
means  to  discover  the  truth,  he  took  his  way  through 
the  tortuous  streets  which  at  that  time  separated  the 
cathedral  from  the  Chancellerie,  a  fine  building  recently 
erected  by  the  Chancellor  Juvenal  des  Ursins,  on  the 
site  of  an  old  fortification  given  by  Charles  VII.  to 
that  faithful  servant  as  a  reward  for  his  glorious 
labors. 

The  count  reached  at  last  the  rue  du  Murier,  in  which 
his  dwelling,  called  the  hotel  de  Poitiers,  was  situated. 
When  his  escort  of  servants  had  entered  the  courtyard 
and  the  heavy  gates  were  closed,  a  deep  silence  fell  on 
the  narrow  street,  where  other  great  seigneurs  had  their 
houses,  for  this  new  quarter  of  the  town  was  near  to 
Plessis,  the  usual  residence  of  the  king,  to  whom  the 
courtiers,  if  sent  for,  could  go  in  a  moment.  The  last 
house  in  this  street  was  also  the  last  in  the  town.  It 
belonged  to  Maitre  Cornelius  Hoogworst,  anoldBraban- 


Maitre  Cornelius.  451 

tian  merchant,  to  whom  King  Louis  XI.  gave  his 
utmost  confidence  in  those  financial  transactions  which 
his  crafty  policy  induced  him  to  undertake  outside  of 
his  own  kingdom. 

Observing  the  outline  of  the  houses  occupied 
respectively  by  Maitre  Cornelius  and  by  the  Comte  de 
Poitiers,  it  was  easy  to  believe  that  the  same  architect 
had  built  them  both  and  destined  them  for  the  use  of 
tyrants.  Each  was  sinister  in  aspect,  resembling  a 
small  fortress,  and  both  could  be  well  defended  against 
an  angry  populace.  Their  corners  were  upheld  by 
towers  like  those  which  lovers  of  antiquities  remark  in 
towns  where  the  hammer  of  the  iconoclast  has  not  yet 
prevailed.  The  bays,  which  had  little  depth,  gave  a 
great  power  of  resistance  to  the  iron  shutters  of  the 
windows  and  doors.  The  riots  and  the  civil  wars  so 
frequent  in  those  tumultuous  times  were  ample  justi- 
fication for  these  precautions. 

As  six  o'clock  was  striking  from  the  great  tower 
of  the  Abbey  Saint-Martin,  the  lover  of  the  hapless 
countess  passed  in  front  of  the  hotel  de  Poitiers  and 
paused  for  a  moment  to  listen  to  the  sounds  made  in 
the  lower  hall  by  the  servants  of  the  count,  who  were 
supping.  Casting  a  glance  at  the  window  of  the  room 
where  he  supposed  his  love  to  be,  he  continued  his 
way  to  the  adjoining  house.  All  along  his  way,  the 
3roung  man  had  heard  the  joyous  uproar  of  many 
feasts  given  throughout  the  town  in  honor  of  the  day. 
The  ill-joined  shutters  sent  out  streaks  of  light,  the 
chimneys  smoked,  and  the  comforting  odor  of  roasted 
meats  pervaded  the  town.  After  the  conclusion  of 
the  church  services,  the  inhabitants  were  regaling  them- 


452  Maitre  Cornelius. 

selves,  with  murmurs  of  satisfaction  which  fancy  can 
picture  better  than  words  can  paint.  But  at  this  par- 
ticular spot  a  deep  silence  reigned,  because  in  these 
two  houses  lived  two  passions  which  never  rejoiced. 
Beyond  them  stretched  the  silent  country.  Beneath 
the  shadow  of  the  steeples  of  Saint-Martin,  these  two 
mute  dwellings,  separated  from  the  others  in  the  same 
street  and  standing  at  the  crooked  end  of  it,  seemed 
afflicted  with  leprosy.  The  building  opposite  to  them, 
the  home  of  the  criminals  of  the  State,  was  also  under 
a  ban.  A  young  man  would  be  readily  impressed  by 
this  sudden  contrast.  About  to  fling  himself  into  an 
enterprise  that  was  horribly  hazardous,  it  is  no  wonder 
that  the  daring  young  seigneur  stopped  short  before 
the  house  of  the  silversmith,  and  called  to  mind  the 
many  tales  furnished  by  the  life  of  Maitre  Cornelius, 
—  tales  which  had  caused  such  singular  horror  to  the 
countess.  At  this  period  a  man  of  war,  and  even  a 
lover,  trembled  at  the  mere  word  "  magic."  Few  in- 
deed were  the  minds  and  the  imaginations  which  dis- 
believed in  occult  facts  and  tales  of  the  marvellous. 
The  lover  of  the  Comtesse  de  Saint- Vallier,  one  of  the 
daughters  whom  Louis  XI.  had  in  Dauphine  by  Ma- 
dame de  Sassenage,  however  bold  he  might  be  in  other 
respects,  was  likely  to  think  twice  before  he  finally 
entered  the  house  of  a  so-called   sorcerer. 

The  history  of  Maitre  Cornelius  Hoogworst  will  fully 
explain  the  security  which  the  silversmith  inspired  in 
the  Comte  de  Saint- Vallier,  the  terror  of  the  countess, 
and  the  hesitation  that  now  took  possession  of  the 
lover.  But,  in  order  to  make  the  readers  of  this 
nineteenth  century  understand  how  such  commonplace 


Maitre  Cornelius.  453 

events  could  be  turned  into  anything  supernatural,  and 
to  make  them  share  the  alarms  of  that  olden  time,  it 
is  necessary  to  interrupt  the  course  of  this  narrative 
and  cast  a  rapid  glance  on  the  preceding  life  and  ad- 
ventures of  Maitre  Cornelius. 


454  Maitre  Cornelius. 


II. 

THE    TORgONNIER. 

Cornelius  Hoogworst,  one  of  the  richest  merchants 
in  Ghent,  having  drawn  upon  himself  the  enmity  of 
Charles,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  found  refuge  and  protec- 
tion at  the  court  of  Louis  XI.  The  king  was  con- 
scious of  the  advantages  he  could  gain  from  a  man 
connected  with  all  the  principal  commercial  houses  of 
Flanders,  Venice,  and  the  Levant ;  he  naturalized,  en- 
nobled, and  flattered  Maitre  Cornelius  ;  all  of  which 
was  rarely  done  by  Louis  XI.  The  monarch  pleased 
the  Fleming  as  much  as  the  Fleming  pleased  the  mon- 
arch. Wily,  distrustful,  and  miserly ;  equally  politic, 
equally  learned  ;  superior,  both  of  them,  to  their  epoch  ; 
understanding  each  other  marvellously  ;  they  discarded 
and  resumed  with  equal  facility,  the  one  his  conscience, 
the  other  his  religion ;  they  loved  the  same  Virgin,  one 
by  conviction,  the  other  by  policy  ;  in  short,  if  we  may 
believe  the  jealous  tales  of  Olivier  le  Daim  and  Tris- 
tan, the  king  went  to  the  house  of  the  FlemiDg  for 
those  diversions  with  which  King  Louis  XL  diverted 
himself.  History  has  taken  care  to  transmit  to  our 
knowledge  the  licentious  tastes  of  a  monarch  who  was 
not  averse  to  debauchery.  The  old  Fleming  found, 
no  doubt,  both  pleasure  and  profit  in  lending  himself 
to  the  capricious  pleasures  of  his  royal  client. 


Maitre  Cornelius.  455 

Cornelius  had  now  lived  nine  years  in  the  city  of 
Tours.  During  those  years  extraordinary  events  had 
happened  in  his  house,  which  had  made  him  the  object 
of  general  execration.  On  his  first  arrival,  he  had 
spent  considerable  sums  in  order  to  put  the  treasures 
he  brought  with  him  in  safety.  The  strange  inventions 
made  for  him  secretly  by  the  locksmiths  of  the  town, 
the  curious  precautions  taken  in  bringing  those  lock- 
smiths to  his  house  in  a  way  to  compel  their  silence, 
were  long  the  subject  of  countless  tales  which  en- 
livened the  evening  gatherings  of  the  city.  These 
singular  artifices  on  the  part  of  the  old  man  made 
every  one  suppose  him  the  possessor  of  Oriental  riches. 
Consequently  the  narrators  of  that  region  —  the  home 
of  the  tale  in  France  —  built  rooms  full  of  gold  and 
precious  stones  in  the  Fleming's  house,  not  omitting 
to  attribute  all  this  fabulous  wealth  to  compacts  with 
Magic. 

Maitre  Cornelius  had  brought  with  him  from  Ghent 
two  Flemish  valets,  an  old  woman,  and  a  young  ap- 
prentice; the  latter,  a  youth  with  a  gentle,  pleasing- 
face,  served  him  as  secretary,  cashier,  factotum,  and 
courier.  During  the  first  year  of  his  settlement  in 
Tours,  a  robbery  of  considerable  amount  took  place 
in  his  house,  and  judicial  inquiry  showed  that  the  crime 
must  have  been  committed  by  one  of  its  inmates.  The 
old  miser  had  his  two  valets  and  the  secretary  put  in 
prison.  The  young  man  was  feeble  and  he  died  under 
the  sufferings  of  the  "question"  protesting  his  inno- 
cence. The  valets  confessed  the  crime  to  escape  tor- 
ture ;  but  when  the  judge  required  them  to  say  where 
the  stolen  property  could  be  found,  they  kept  silence, 


456  Maitre  Cornelius. 

were  again  put  to  the  torture,  judged,  condemned,  and 
hanged.  On  their  way  to  the  scaffold  they  declared 
themselves  innocent,  according  to  the  custom  of  all 
persons  about  to  be  executed. 

The  city  of  Tours  talked  much  of  this  singular 
affair ;  but  the  criminals  were  Flemish,  and  the  inter- 
est felt  in  their  unhappy  fate  soon  evaporated.  In 
those  days  wars  and  seditions  furnished  endless  ex- 
citements, and  the  drama  of  each  day  eclipsed  that  of 
the  night  before.  More  grieved  by  the  loss  he  had 
met  with  than  by  the  death  of  his  three  servants, 
Maitre  Cornelius  lived  alone  in  his  house  with  the  old 
Flemish  woman,  his  sister.  He  obtained  permission 
from  the  king  to  use  the  state  couriers  for  his  private 
affairs,  sold  his  mules  to  a  muleteer  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  lived  from  that  moment  in  the  deepest  soli- 
tude, seeing  no  one  but  the  king,  doing  his  business 
by  means  of  Jews,  who,  shrewd  calculators,  served  him 
well  in  order  to  obtain  his  all-powerful  protection. 

Some  time  after  this  affair,  the  king  himself  pro- 
cured for  his  old  torgonnier  a  young  orphan  in  whom 
he  took  an  interest.  Louis  XI.  called  Maitre  Corne- 
lius familiarly  by  that  obsolete  term,  which,  under  the 
reign  of  Saint-Louis,  meant  a  usurer,  a  collector  of 
imposts,  a  man  who  pressed  others  by  violent  means. 
The  epithet,  tortioimaire,  which  remains  to  this  day  in 
our  legal  phraseology,  explains  the  old  word  torgonnier, 
which  we  often  find  spelt  tortionneur.  The  poor  young 
orphan  devoted  himself  carefully  to  the  affairs  of  the 
old  Fleming,  pleased  him  much,  and  was  soon  high  in 
his  good  graces.  During  a  winter's  night,  certain 
diamonds  deposited  with  Maitre  Cornelius  by  the  King 


Maitre  Cornelius.  457 

of  England  as  security  for  a  sum  of  a  hundred  thou- 
sand crowns  were  stolen,  and  suspicion,  of  course,  fell 
on  the  orphan.  Louis  XL  was  all  the  more  severe 
because  he  had  answered  for  the  youth's  fidelity.  After 
a  very  brief  and  summaiy  examination  by  the  grand 
provost,  the  unfortunate  secretary  was  hanged.  After 
that  no  one  dared  for  a  long  time  to  learn  the  arts  of 
banking  and  exchange  from  Maitre  Cornelius. 

In  course  of  time,  however,  two  young  men  of  the 
town,    Touraineans,  —  men    of    honor,    and   eager   to 
make   their  fortunes,  —  took   service  with  the   silver- 
smith.    Robberies  coincided  with  the  admission  of  the 
two  young  men  into  the  house.     The  circumstances  of 
these  crimes,  the  manner  in  which  they  were  perpe- 
trated,   showed   plainly   that   the   robbers    had  secret 
communication    with    its    inmates.      Become    by   this 
time    more    than   ever  suspicious   and   vindictive,   the 
old  Fleming    laid    the  matter  before   Louis  XL,  who 
placed  it  in  the  hands  of  his  grand  provost.     A  trial 
was  promptly  had  and  promptly  ended.     The  inhabi- 
tants of  Tours  blamed  Tristan  lTIermite  secretly  for 
unseemly    haste.      Guilty   or   not    guilty,    the    young 
Touraineans  were  looked  upon  as  victims,  and  Corne- 
lius as  an  executioner.     The  two  families  thus  thrown 
into  mourning  were  much  respected ;  their  complaints 
obtained  a  hearing,  and  little  by  little  it  came  to  be 
believed  that  all  the  victims  whom   the  king's  silver- 
smith had  sent  to  the  scaffold  were  innocent.     Some 
persons  declared  that  the  cruel  miser  imitated  the  king, 
and  sought  to  put  terror  and  gibbets  between  himself 
and  his  fellow-men  ;  others  said  that  he  had  never  been 
robbed  at  all,  —  that  these  melancholy  executions  were 


458  Maitre  Cornelius. 

the  result  of  cool  calculation,  and  that  their  real  object 
was  to  relieve  him  of  all  fear  for  his  treasure. 

The  first  effect  of  these  rumors  was  to  isolate  Maitre 
Cornelius.  The  Touraineans  treated  him  like  a  leper, 
called  him  the  "  tortionnaire,"  and  named  his  house 
Malemaison.  If  the  Fleming  had  found  strangers  to 
the  town  bold  enough  to  enter  it,  the  inhabitants  would 
have  warned  them  against  doing  so.  The  most  favor- 
able opinion  of  Maitre  Cornelius  was  that  of  persons 
who  thought  him  merely  baneful.  Some  he  inspired 
with  instinctive  terror;  others  he  impressed  with  the 
deep  respect  that  most  men  feel  for  limitless  power 
and  money,  while  to  a  few  he  certainly  possessed  the 
attraction  of  mystery.  His  way  of  life,  his  counte- 
nance, and  the  favor  of  the  king,  justified  all  the  tales 
of  which  he  had  now  become  the  subject. 

Cornelius  travelled  much  in  foreign  lands  after  the 
death  of  his  persecutor,  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  ;  and 
during  his  absence  the  king  caused  his  premises  to  be 
guarded  by  a  detachment  of  his  own  Scottish  guard. 
Such  royal  solicitude  made  the  courtiers  believe  that 
the  old  miser  had  bequeathed  his  property  to  Louis  XI. 
When  at  home,  the  torqonnier  went  out  but  little ;  but 
the  lords  of  the  court  paid  him  frequent  visits.  He 
lent  them  money  rather  liberally,  though  capricious  in 
his  manner  of  doiug  so.  On  certain  days  he  refused 
to  give  them  a  penny ;  the  next  day  he  would  offer 
them  large  sums,  —  always  at  high  interest  and  on 
good  security.  A  good  Catholic,  he  went  regularly  to 
the  services,  always  attending  the  earliest  mass  at 
Saint-Martin  ;  and  as  he  had  purchased  there,  as  else- 
where, a  chapel  in  perpetuity,  he  was  separated  even 


Maitre  Cornelius.  459 

in  church  from  other  Christians.  A  popular  proverb 
of  that  day,  long  remembered  in  Tours,  was  the  say- 
ing:  "You  passed  in  front  of  the  Fleming;  ill-luck 
will  happen  to  you."  Passing  in  front  of  the  Fleming 
explained  all  sudden  pains  and  evils,  involuntary  sad- 
ness, ill-turns  of  fortune  among  the  Touraineans. 
Even  at  court  most  persons  attributed  to  Cornelius 
that  fatal  influence  which  Italian,  Spanish,  and  Asiatic 
superstition  has  called  the  "evil  eye."  Without  the 
terrible  power  of  Louis  XI.,  which  was  stretched  like 
a  mantle  over  that  house,  the  populace,  on  the  slightest 
opportunity,  would  have  demolished  La  Malemaison, 
that  "  evil  house"  in  the  rue  du  Murier.  And  yet  Cor- 
nelius had  been  the  first  to  plant  mulberries  in  Tours, 
and  the  Touraineans  at  that  time  regarded  him  as  their 
good  genius.     Who  shall  reckon  on  popular  favor ! 

A  few  seigneurs  having  met  Maitre  Cornelius  on  his 
journeys  out  of  France  were  surprised  at  his  friendli- 
ness and  good-humor.  At  Tours  he  was  gloomy  and 
absorbed,  yet  he  always  returned  there.  Some  inex- 
plicable power  brought  him  back  to  his  dismal  house 
in  the  rue  du  Murier.  Like  a  snail,  whose  life  is  so 
firmly  attached  to  its  shell,  he  admitted  to  the  king 
that  he  was  never  at  ease  except  under  the  bolts  and 
behind  the  vermiculated  stones  of  his  little  bastille  ; 
yet  he  knew  very  well  that  whenever  Louis  XL  died, 
the  place  would  be  the  most  dangerous  spot  on  earth 
for  him. 

"The  devil  is  amusing  himself  at  the  expense  of 
our  crony,  the  torgonnier"  said  Louis  XI.  to  his  barber, 
a  few  days  before  the  festival  of  All-Saints.  "He 
says  he   has   been  robbed   again,    but    he    can't   hang 


460  Maitre  Cornelius. 

anybody  this  time  unless  he  hangs  himself.  The  old 
vagabond  came  and  asked  me  if,  by  chance,  I  had 
carried  off  a  string  of  rubies  he  wanted  to  sell  me. 
1  Pasques-Dieu  !  I  don't  steal  what  I  can  take,'  I  said 
to  him." 

"  Was  he  frightened?  "  asked  the  barber. 

"Misers  are  afraid  of  only  one  thing,"  replied  the 
king.  "  My  crony  the  torconnier  knows  very  well  that 
I  shall  not  plunder  him  unless  for  good  reason ;  other- 
wise I  should  be  unjust,  and  I  have  never  done  anything 
but  what  is  just  and  necessary." 

"  And  yet  that  old  brigand  overcharges  you,"  said 
the  barber. 

"You  wish  he  did,  don't  you?"  replied  the  king, 
with  a  malicious  look  at  his  barber. 

"  Ventre- Mahom,  sire,  the  inheritance  would  be  a  fine 
one  between  you  and  the  devil !  " 

"  There,  there  !  "  said  the  king,  "  don't  put  bad  ideas 
into  my  head.  My  crony  is  a  more  faithful  man  than 
those  whose  fortunes  I  have  made  —  perhaps  because 
he  owes  me  nothing." 

For  the  last  two  years  Maitre  Cornelius  had  lived 
entirely  alone  with  his  aged  sister,  who  was  thought  a 
witch.  A  tailor  in  the  neighborhood  declared  that  he 
had  often  seen  her  at  night,  on  the  roof  of  the  house, 
waiting;  for  the  hour  of  the  witches'  sabbath.  This 
fact  seemed  the  more  extraordinary  because  it  was 
known  to  be  the  miser's  custom  to  lock  up  his  sister  at 
night  in  a  bedroom  with  iron -barred  windows. 

As  he  grew  older,  Cornelius,  constantly  robbed,  and 
always  fearful  of  being  duped  b}7  men,  came  to  hate 
mankind,  with  the  one  exception  of  the  king,  whom  he 


Maitre  Cornelius.  461 

greatly  respected.  He  fell  into  extreme  misanthropy, 
but,  like  most  misers,  his  passion  for  gold,  the  assimila- 
tiou,  as  it  were,  of  that  metal  with  his  own  substance, 
became  closer  and  closer,  and  age  intensified  it.  His 
sister  herself  excited  his  suspicions,  though  she  was 
perhaps  more  miserly,  more  rapacious  than  her  brother 
whom  she  actually  surpassed  in  penurious  inventions. 
Their  daily  existence  had  something  mysterious  and 
problematical  about  it.  The  old  woman  rarely  took 
bread  from  the  baker ;  she  appeared  so  seldom  in  the 
market,  that  the  least  credulous  of  the  townspeople 
ended  by  attributing  to  these  strange  beings  the  knowl- 
edge of  some  secret  for  the  maintenance  of  life.  Those 
who  dabbled  in  alchemy  declared  that  Maitre  Cornelius 
had  the  power  of  making  gold.  Men  of  science  averred 
that  he  had  found  the  Universal  Panacea.  According 
to  many  of  the  country-people  to  whom  the  townsfolk 
talked  of  him,  Cornelius  was  a  chimerical  being,  and 
many  of  them  came  into  the  town  to  look  at  his  house 
out  of  mere  curiosity. 

The  young  seigneur  whom  we  left  in  front  of  that 
house  looked  about  him,  first  at  the  h6tel  de  Poitiers, 
the  home  of  his  mistress,  and  then  at  the  evil  house. 
The  moonbeams  were  creeping  round  their  angles,  and 
tinting  with  a  mixture  of  light  and  shade  the  hollows 
and  reliefs  of  the  carvings.  The  caprices  of  this  white 
light  gave  a  sinister  expression  to  both  edifices ;  it 
seemed  as  if  Nature  herself  encouraged  the  supersti- 
tions that  hung  about  the  miser's  dwelling.  The  young 
man  called  to  mind  the  many  traditions  which  made 
Cornelius  a  personage  both  curious  and  formidable. 
Though  quite  decided  through  the  violence  of  his  love 


462  Maitre  Cornelius. 

to  enter  that  house,  and  stay  there  long  enough  to 
accomplish  his  design,  he  hesitated  to  take  the  final 
step,  all  the  while  aware  that  he  should  certainly  take  it. 
But  where  is  the  man  who,  in  a  crisis  of  his  life,  does 
not  willingly  listen  to  presentiments  as  he  hangs  abovre 
the  precipice?  A  lover  worthy  of  being  loved,  the 
young  man  feared  to  die  before  he  had  been  received 
for  love's  sake  by  the  countess. 

This  mental  deliberation  was  so  painfully  interesting 
that  he  did  not  feel  the  cold  wind  as  it  whistled  round 
the  corner  of  the  building,  and  chilled  his  legs.  On 
entering  that  house,  he  must  lay  aside  his  name,  as 
already  he  had  laid  aside  the  handsome  garments  of 
nobility.  In  case  of  mishap,  he  could  not  claim  the 
privileges  of  his  rank  nor  the  protection  of  his  friends 
without  bringing  hopeless  ruin  on  the  Comtesse  de 
Saint-Vallier.  If  her  husband  suspected  the  nocturnal 
visit  of  a  lover,  he  was  capable  of  roasting  her  alive  in 
an  iron  cage,  or  of  killing  her  by  degrees  in  the  dun- 
geons of  a  fortified  castle.  Looking  down  at  the  shabby 
clothing  in  which  he  had  disguised  himself,  the  young 
nobleman  felt  ashamed.  His  black  leather  belt,  his  stout 
shoes,  his  ribbed  socks,  his  linsey-woolsey  breeches, 
and  his  gray  woollen  doublet  made  him  look  like  the 
clerk  of  some  poverty-stricken  justice.  To  a  noble  of 
the  fifteenth  century  it  was  like  death  itself  to  play  the 
part  of  a  beggarly  burgher,  and  renounce  the  privileges 
of  his  rank.  But  —  to  climb  the  roof  of  the  house 
where  his  mistress  wept;  to  descend  the  chimney,  or 
creep  along  from  gutter  to  gutter  to  the  window  of  her 
room ;  to  risk  his  life  to  kneel  beside  her  on  a  silken 
cushion  before  a  glowing  fire,  during  the  sleep  of  a 


Maitre  Cornelius.  463 

dangerous  husband,  whose  snores  would  double  their 
joy ;  to  defy  both  heaven  and  earth  in  snatching  the 
boldest  of  all  kisses :  to  say  no  word  that  would  not 
lead  to  death  or  at  least  to  sanguinary  combat  if  over- 
heard, —  all  these  voluptuous  images  and  romantic  dan- 
gers decided  the  young  man.  However  slight  might  be 
the  guerdon  of  his  enterprise,  could  he  only  kiss  once 
more  the  hand  of  his  ladv,  he  still  resolved  to  venture 
all,  impelled  by  the  chivalrous  and  passionate  spirit  of 
those  days.  He  never  supposed  for  a  moment  that  the 
countess  would  refuse  him  the  soft  happiness  of  love 
in  the  midst  of  such  mortal  danger.  The  adventure 
was  too  perilous,  too  impossible  not  to  be  attempted 
and  carried  out. 

Suddenly  all  the  bells  in  the  town  rang  out  the  cur- 
few, —  a  custom  fallen  elsewhere  into  desuetude,  but 
still  observed  in  the  provinces,  where  venerable  habits 
are  abolished  slowly.  Though  the  lights  were  not  put 
out,  the  watchmen  of  each  quarter  stretched  the  chains 
across  the  streets.  Many  doors  were  locked ;  the  steps 
of  a  few  belated  burghers,  attended  by  their  servants, 
armed  to  the  teeth  and  bearing  lanterns,  echoed  in  the 
distance.  Soon  the  town,  garroted  as  it  were,  seemed 
to  be  asleep,  and  safe  from  robbers  and  evil-doers,  ex- 
cept through  the  roofs.  In  those  days  the  roofs  of 
houses  were  much  frequented  after  dark.  The  streets 
were  so  narrow  in  the  provincial  towns,  and  even  in 
Paris,  that  robbers  could  jump  from  the  roofs  on  one 
side  to  those  on  the  other.  This  perilous  occupation 
was  long  the  amusement  of  King  Charles  IX.  in  his 
youth,  if  we  may  believe  the  memoirs  of  his  day. 

Fearing  to  present  himself  too  late  to  the  old  silver- 


464  Maitre  Cornelius. 

smith,  the  young  nobleman  now  went  np  to  the  door  of 
the  Malemaison  intending  to  knock,  when,  on  looking 
at  it,  his  attention  was  excited  by  a  sort  of  vision, 
which  the  writers  of  those  days  would  have  called 
cornue,  —  perhaps  with  reference  to  horns  and  hoofs. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes  to  clear  his  sight,  and  a  thousand 
diverse  sentiments  passed  through  his  mind  at  the 
spectacle  before  him.  On  each  side  of  the  door  was  a 
face  framed  in  a  species  of  loophole.  At  first  he  took 
these  two  faces  for  grotesque  masks  carved  in  stone, 
so  angular,  distorted,  projecting,  motionless,  discolored 
were  they  ;  but  the  cold  air  and  the  moonlight  presently 
enabled  him  to  distinguish  the  faint  white  mist  which 
living  breath  sent  from  two  purplish  noses ;  then  he 
saw  in  each  hollow  face,  beneath  the  shadow  of  the 
eyebrows,  two  eyes  of  porcelain  blue  casting  clear  fire, 
like  those  of  a  wolf  crouching  in  the  brushwood  as  it 
hears  the  baying  of  the  hounds.  The  uneasy  gleam  of 
those  eyes  was  turned  upon  him  so  fixedly  that,  after 
receiving  it  for  fully  a  minute,  during  which  he  exam- 
ined the  singular  sight,  he  felt  like  a  bird  at  which  a 
setter  points ;  a  feverish  tumult  rose  in  his  soul,  but  he 
quickly  repressed  it.  The  two  faces,  strained  and  sus- 
picious, were  doubtless  those  of  Cornelius  and  his 
sister. 

The  young  man  feigned  to  be  looking  about  him  to 
see  where  he  was,  and  whether  this  were  the  house 
named  on  a  card  which  he  drew  from  his  pocket  and 
pretended  to  read  in  the  moonlight ;  then  he  walked 
straight  to  the  door  and  struck  three  blows  upon  it, 
which  echoed  within  the  house  as  if  it  were  the  entrance 
to  a  cave.     A  faint  light  crept  beneath  the  threshold, 


Maitre  Cornelius.  465 

and  an  eye  appeared  at  a  small  and  very  strong  iron 
grating. 

"Who  is  there?" 

"  A  friend,  sent  by  Oosterlinck,  of  Brussels." 

"  What  do  you  want  ? " 

"To  enter." 

"  Your  name? " 

41  Philippe  Goulenoire." 

"  Have  you  brought  credentials?" 

"  Here  they  are." 

"  Pass  them  through  the  box." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  To  your  left." 

Philippe  Goulenoire  put  the  letter  through  the  slit  of 
an  iron  box  above  which  was  a  loophole. 

"  The  devil!  "  thought  he,  "  plainly  the  king  comes 
here,  as  they  say  he  does ;  he  could  n't  take  more  pre- 
cautions at  Plessis." 

He  waited  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  the 
street.  After  that  lapse  of  time,  he  heard  Cornelius 
saying  to  his  sister,  "  Close  the  traps  of  the  door." 

A  clinking  of  chains  resounded  from  within.  Philippe 
heard  the  bolts  run,  the  locks  creak,  and  presently  a 
small  low  door,  iron-bound,  opened  to  the  slightest 
distance  through  which  a  man  could  pass.  At  the  risk 
of  tearing  off  his  clothing,  Philippe  squeezed  himself 
rather  than  walked  into  La  Malemaison.  A  toothless 
old  woman  with  a  hatchet  face,  the  eyebrows  projecting 
like  the  handles  of  a  caldron,  the  nose  and  chin  so 
near  together  that  a  nut  could  scarcely  pass  between 
them,  —  a  pallid,  haggard  creature,  her  hollow  temples 
composed    apparently   of   only   bones    and    nerves,  — 

30 


466  Maitre  Cornelius. 

guided  the  soi-disant  foreigner  silently  into  a  lower 
room,  while  Cornelius  followed  prudently  behind  him. 

"  Sit  there,"  she  said  to  Philippe,  showing  him  a 
three-legged  stool  placed  at  the  corner  of  a  carved 
stone  fireplace,  wrhere  there  was  no  fire. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  chimney-piece  was  a  walnut 
table  with  twisted  legs,  on  which  wras  an  egg  in  a  plate 
and  ten  or  a  dozen  little  bread-sops,  hard  and  dry  and 
cut  with  studied  parsimony.  Two  stools  placed  beside 
the  table,  on  one  of  which  the  old  woman  sat  down, 
showed  that  the  miserly  pair  were  eating  their  suppers. 
Cornelius  went  to  the  door  and  pushed  two  iron  shutters 
into  their  place,  closing,  no  doubt,  the  loopholes  through 
which  they  had  been  gazing  into  the  street ;  then  he 
returned  to  his  seat.  Philippe  Goulenoire  (so  called) 
next  beheld  the  brother  and  sister  dipping  their  sops 
into  the  egg* in  turn,  and  with  the  utmost  gravity  and 
the  same  precision  with  which  soldiers  dip  their  spoons 
in  regular  rotation  into  the  mess-pot.  This  perform- 
ance was  done  in  silence.  But  as  he  ate,  Cornelius 
examined  the  false  apprentice  with  as  much  care  and 
scrutiny  as  if  he  were  weighing  an  old  coin. 

Philippe,  feeling  that  an  icy  mantle  had  descended 
on  his  shoulders,  was  tempted  to  look  about  him  ;  but, 
with  the  circumspection  dictated  by  all  amorous  enter- 
prises, he  was  careful  not  to  glance,  even  furtively,  at 
the  walls ;  for  he  fully  understood  that  if  Cornelius 
detected  him,  he  would  not  allow  so  inquisitive  a  person 
to  remain  in  his  house.  He  contented  himself,  there- 
fore, by  looking  first  at  the  egg  and  then  at  the  old 
woman,  occasionally  contemplating  his  future  master. 

Louis   XL's    silversmith   resembled    that   monarch- 


Maitre  Cornelius.  467 

He  had  even  acquired  the  same  gestures,  as  often 
happens  where  persons  dwell  together  in  a  sort  of  inti- 
macy. The  thick  eyebrows  of  the  Fleming  almost 
covered  his  eyes ;  but  by  raising  them  a  little  he  could 
flash  out  a  lucid,  penetrating,  powerful  glance,  the 
glance  of  men  habituated  to  silence,  and  to  whom  the 
phenomenon  of  the  concentration  of  inward  forces  has 
become  familiar.  His  thin  lips,  vertically  wrinkled, 
gave  him  an  air  of  indescribable  craftiness.  The  lower 
part  of  his  face  bore  a  vague  resemblance  to  the  muzzle 
of  a  fox,  but  his  lofty,  projecting  forehead,  with  many 
lines,  showed  great  and  splendid  qualities  and  a  nobility 
of  soul,  the  springs  of  which  had  been  lowered  by  ex- 
perience until  the  cruel  teachings  of  life  had  driven  it 
back  into  the  farthest  recesses  of  this  most  singular 
human  being.  He  was  certainly  not  an  ordinary 
miser ;  and  his  passion  covered,  no  doubt,  extreme 
enjoyments  and  secret  conceptions. 

"  What  is  the  present  rate  of  Venetian  sequins?" 
he  said  abruptly  to  his  future  apprentice. 

"  Three-quarters  at  Brussels  ;  one  in  Ghent." 

"  What  is  the  freight  on  the  Scheldt?  " 

"  Three  sous  parisis." 

"  Any  news  at  Ghent?" 

"  The  brother  of  Lieven  d'Herde  is  ruined." 

"  Ah!" 

After  giving  vent  to  that  exclamation,  the  old  man 
covered  his  knee  with  the  skirt  of  his  dalmatian,  a 
species  of  robe  made  of  black  velvet,  open  in  front, 
with  large  sleeves  and  no  collar,  the  sumptuous  mate- 
rial being  defaced  and  shiny.  These  remains  of  a  mag- 
nificent costume,   formerly  worn  by  him  as  president 


468  Maitre  Cornelius. 

of  the  tribunal  of  the  Parchons,  functions  which  had 
won  him  the  enmity  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  was 
now  a  mere  rag. 

Philippe  was  not  cold ;  he  perspired  in  his  harness, 
dreading  further  questions.  Until  then  the  brief  in- 
formation obtained  that  morning  from  a  Jew  whose 
life  he  had  formerly  saved,  had  sufficed  him,  thanks 
to  his  good  memory  and  the  perfect  knowledge  the 
Jew  possessed  of  the  manners  and  habits  of  Maitre 
Cornelius.  But  the  young  man  who,  in  the  first  flush 
of  his  enterprise,  had  feared  nothing  was  beginning  to 
perceive  the  difficulties  it  presented.  The  solemn  grav- 
ity of  the  terrible  Fleming  reacted  upon  him.  He  felt 
himself  under  lock  and  key,  and  remembered  how  the 
grand  provost  Tristan  and  his  rope  were  at  the  orders 
of  Maitre  Cornelius. 

"  Have  you  supped  ?  "  asked  the  silversmith,  in  a 
tone  which  signified,  "  You  are  not  to  sup." 

The  old  maid  trembled  in  spite  of  her  brother's  tone  ; 
she  looked  at  the  new  inmate  as  if  to  gauge  the  capac- 
ity of  the  stomach  she  might  have  to  fill,  and  said 
with  a  specious  smile  :  — 

"You  have  not  stolen  your  name;  your  hair  and 
moustache  are  as  black  as  the  devil's  tail." 

"  1  have  supped,"  he  said. 

"Well  then,"  replied  the  miser,  "you  can  come 
back  and  see  me  to-morrow.  I  have  done  without  an 
apprentice  for  some  years.  Besides,  I  wish  to  sleep 
upon  the  matter." 

"  Hey  !  by  Saint-Bavon,  monsieur,  I  am  a  Fleming  ; 
I  don't  know  a  soul  in  this  place  ;  the  chains  are  up  in 
the  streets,  and  I  shall  be  put  in  prison.     However," 


Maitre  Cornelius.  469 

he  added,  frightened  at  the  eagerness  he  was  showing 
in  his  words,  "if  it  is  your  good  pleasure,  of  course  I 
will  go." 

The  oath  seemed  to  affect  the  old  man  singularly. 

"Come,  come,  by  Saiut-Bavon  indeed,  you  shall 
sleep  here." 

"  But  —  "  said  his  sister,  alarmed. 

"  Silence,"  replied  Cornelius.  "  In  his  letter  Oos- 
terlinck  tells  me  he  will  answer  for  this  young  man. 
You  know,"  he  whispered  in  his  sister's  ear,  "  we  have 
a  hundred  thousand  francs  belonging  to  Oosterlinck? 
That 's  a  hostage,  hey  !  " 

"  And  suppose  he  steals  those  Bavarian  jewels? 
Tieiis,  he  looks  more  like  a  thief  than  a  Fleming." 

"Hush!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  listening  atten- 
tively to  some  sound. 

Both  misers  listened.  A  moment  after  the  "  Hush  !  " 
uttered  by  Cornelius,  a  noise  produced  by  the  steps  of 
several  men  echoed  in  the  distance  on  the  other  side 
of  the  moat  of  the  town. 

"  It  is  the  Plessis  guard  on  their  rounds,"  said  the 
sister. 

"  Give  me  the  key  of  the  apprentice's  room,"  said 
Cornelius. 

The  old  woman  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  take  the 
lamp. 

"Do  you  mean  to  leave  us  alone,  without  light?" 
cried  Cornelius,  in  a  meaning  tone  of  voice.  "At 
your  age  can't  you  see  in  the  dark?  It  isn't  difficult 
to  find  a  key." 

The  sister  understood  the  meaning  hidden  beneath 
these  words  and  left  the  room.     Looking  at  this  singu- 


470  Maitre  Cornelius. 

lar  creature  as  she  walked  towards  the  door,  Philippe 
Goulenoire  was  able  to  hide  from  Cornelius  the  glance 
which  he  hastily  cast  about  the  room.  It  was  wain- 
scoted in  oak  to  the  chair-strip,  and  the  walls  above 
were  hung  with  yellow  leather  stamped  with  black  ara- 
besques ;  but  what  struck  the  young  man  most  was  a 
match-lock  pistol  with  its  formidable  trigger.  This 
new  and  terrible  weapon  lay  close  to  Cornelius. 

'k  How  do  you  expect  to  earn  your  living  with  me?  " 
said  the  latter. 

"  I  have  but  little  money,"  replied  Philippe,  "  but  I 
know  good  tricks  in  business.  If  you  will  pay  me  a 
sou  on  every  mark  I  earn  for  you,  that  will  satisfy 
me." 

"  A  sou  !  a  sou  !  "  echoed  the  miser;  "  why,  that's 
a  good  deal !  " 

At  this  moment  the  old  sibyl  returned  with  the  key. 

"  Come,"  said  Cornelius  to  Philippe. 

The  pair  went  out  beneath  the  portico  and  mounted 
a  spiral  stone  staircase,  the  round  well  of  which  rose 
through  a  high  turret,  beside  the  hall  in  which  they 
had  been  sitting.  At  the  first  floor  up  the  young  man 
paused. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Cornelius.  "The  devil!  this  nook 
is  the  place  where  the  king  takes  his  ease." 

The  architect  had  constructed  the  room  given  to  the 
apprentice  under  the  pointed  roof  of  the  tower  in  which 
the  staircase  wound.  It  was  a  little  round  room,  all 
of  stone,  cold  and  without  ornament  of  any  kind.  The 
tower  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  facade  on  the  court- 
yard, which,  like  the  courtyards  of  all  provincial  houses, 
was  narrow  and  dark.     At  the  farther  end,  through  an 


Maitre  Cornelius.  471 

iron  railing,  could  be  seen  a  wretched  garden  in  which 
nothing  grew  but  the  mulberries  which  Cornelius  had  in- 
troduced. The  young  nobleman  took  note  of  all  this 
through  the  loopholes  on  the  spiral  staircase,  the  moon 
casting,  fortunately,  a  brilliant  light.  A  cot,  a  stool, 
a  mismatched  pitcher  and  basin  formed  the  entire  fur- 
niture of  the  room.  The  light  could  enter  only  through 
square  openings,  placed  at  intervals  in  the  outside  wall 
of  the  tower,  according,  no  doubt,  to  the  exterior 
ornamentation. 

"  Here  is  your  lodging,"  said  Cornelius  ;  "  it  is  plain 
and  solid  and  contains  all  that  is  needed  for  sleep. 
Good  night !  Do  not  leave  this  room  as  the  others 
did." 

After  giving  his  apprentice  a  last  look  full  of  many 
meanings,  Cornelius  double-locked  the  door,  took  away 
the  key  and  descended  the  staircase,  leaving  the  young 
nobleman  as  much  befooled  as  a  bell-founder  when  on 
opening  his  mould  he  finds  nothing.  Alone,  without 
light,  seated  on  a  stool,  in  a  little  garret  from  which  so 
many  of  his  predecessors  had  gone  to  the  scaffold,  the 
young  fellow  felt  like  a  wild  beast  caught  in  a  trap. 
He  jumped  upon  the  stool  and  raised  himself  to  his  full 
height  in  order  to  reach  one  of  the  little  openings 
through  which  a  faint  light  shone.  Thence  he  saw  the 
Loire,  the  beautiful  slopes  of  Saint-Cyr,  the  gloomy 
marvels  of  Plessis,  where  lights  were  gleaming  in  the 
deep  recesses  of  a  few  windows.  Far  in  the  distance 
lay  the  beautiful  meadows  of  Touraine  and  the  silvery 
stream  of  her  river.  Every  point  of  this  lovely  nature 
had,  at  that  moment,  a  mysterious  grace  ;  the  windows, 
the  waters,  the  roofs  of  the  houses  shone  like  diamonds 


472  Maitre  Cornelius. 

in  the  trembliug  light  of  the  moon.  The  soul  of  the 
young  seigneur  could  not  repress  a  sad  and  tender 
emotion. 

"  Suppose  it  is  my  last  farewell !  "  he  said  to  himself. 

He  stood  there,  feeling  already  the  terrible  emotions 
his  adventure  offered  him,  and  yielding  to  the  fears  of 
a  prisoner  who,  nevertheless,  retains  some  glimmer  of 
hope.  His  mistress  illumined  each  difficulty.  To  him 
she  was  no  louger  a  woman,  but  a  supernatural  being 
seen  through  the  incense  of  his  desires.  A  feeble  cry, 
which  he  fancied  came  from  the  hdtel  de  Poitiers, 
restored  him  to  himself  and  to  a  sense  of  his  true 
situation.  Throwing  himself  on  his  pallet  to  reflect  on 
his  course,  he  heard  a  slight  movement  which  echoed 
faintly  from  the  spiral  staircase.  He  listened  attentively, 
and  the  whispered  words,  "  He  has  gone  to  bed,"  said 
by  the  old  woman,  reached  his  ear.  ¥>y  an  accident 
unknown  probably  to  the  architect,  the  slightest  noise 
on  the  staircase  sounded  in  the  room  of  the  apprentices, 
so  that  Philippe  did  not  lose  a  single  movement  of  the 
miser  and  his  sister  who  were  watching  him.  He  un- 
dressed, lay  down,  pretended  to  sleep,  and  employed 
the  time  during  which  the  pair  remained  on  the  stair- 
case, in  seeking  means  to  get  from  his  prison  to  the 
hotel  de  Poitiers. 

About  ten  o'clock  Cornelius  and  his  sister,  convinced 
that  their  new  inmate  was  sleeping,  retired  to  their 
rooms.  The  young  man  studied  carefully  the  sounds 
they  made  in  doing  so,  and  thought  he  could  recognize 
the  position  of  their  apartments  ;  they  must,  he  believed, 
occupy  the  whole  second  floor.  Like  all  the  houses  of 
that  period,  this  floor  was  next  below  the  roof,  from 


Maitre  Cornelius.  473 

which  its  windows  projected,  adorned  with  spandrel 
tops  that  were  richly  sculptured.  The  roof  itself  was 
edged  with  a  sort  of  balustrade,  concealing  the  gutters 
for  the  rain  water  which  gargoyles  in  the  form  of 
crocodile's  heads  discharged  into  the  street.  The 
young  seigneur,  after  studying  this  topography  as 
carefully  as  a  cat,  believed  he  could  make  his  way 
from  the  tower  to  the  roof,  and  thence  to  Madame  de 
Vallier's  by  the  gutters  and  the  help  of  a  gargoyle. 
But  he  did  not  count  on  the  narrowness  of  the  loop- 
holes of  the  tower ;  it  was  impossible  to  pass  through 
them.  He  then  resolved  to  get  out  upon  the  roof  of 
the  house  through  the  window  of  the  staircase  on  the  sec- 
ond floor.  To  accomplish  this  daring  project  he  must 
leave  his  room,  and  Cornelius  had  carried  off  the  key. 
By  way  of  precaution,  the  young  man  had  brought 
with  him,  concealed  under  his  clothes,  one  of  those 
poignards  formerly  used  to  give  the  coup  de  grace  in  a 
duel  when  the  vanquished  adversary  begged  the  victor 
to  despatch  him.  This  horrible  weapon  had  on  one  side 
a  blade  sharpened  like  a  razor,  and  on  the  other  a 
blade  that  was  toothed  like  a  saw,  but  toothed  in  the 
reverse  direction  from  that  by  which  it  would  enter 
the  body.  The  young  man  determined  to  use  this 
latter  blade  to  saw  through  the  wood  around  the  lock. 
Happily  for  him  the  staple  of  the  lock  was  put  on  to 
the  outside  of  the  door  by  four  stout  screws.  By  the 
help  of  his  dagger  he  managed,  not  without  great 
difficulty,  to  unscrew  and  remove  it  altogether,  carefully 
laying  it  aside  and  the  four  screws  with  it.  By  mid- 
night he  was  free,  and  he  went  down  the  stairs  without 
his  shoes  to  reconnoitre  the  localities. 


474  Maitre  Cornelius. 

He  was  not  a  little  astonished  to  find  a  door  wide 
open  which  led  down  a  corridor  to  several  chambers,  at 
the  end  of  which  corridor  was  a  window  opening  on 
a  depression  caused  by  the  junction  of  the  roofs  of 
the  hotel  de  Poitiers  and  that  of  the  Malemaison 
which  met  there.  Nothing  could  express  his  joy,  un- 
less it  be  the  vow  which  he  instantly  made  to  the 
Blessed  Virgin  to  found  a  mass  in  her  honor  in  the 
celebrated  parish  church  of  the  Escrignoles  at  Tours. 
After  examining  the  tall  broad  chimneys  of  the  hotel 
de  Poitiers  he  returned  upon  his  steos  to  fetch  his 
dagger,  when  to  his  horror,  he  beheld  a  vivid  light  on 
the  staircase  and  saw  Maitre  Cornelius  himself  in  his 
dalmatian,  carrying  a  lamp,  his  eyes  open  to  their  full- 
est extent  and  fixed  upon  the  corridor,  at  the  entrance 
of  which  he  stood  like  a  spectre. 

"  If  I  open  the  window  and  jump  upon  the  roofs,  he 
will  hear  me,"  thought  the  young  man. 

The  terrible  old  miser  advanced,  like  the  hour  of 
death  to  a  criminal.  In  this  extremity  Philippe,  in- 
stigated by  love,  recovered  his  presence  of  mind ;  he 
slipped  into  a  doorway,  pressing  himself  back  into  the 
angle  of  it,  and  awaited  the  old  man.  When  Cornelius, 
holding  his  lamp  in  advance  of  him,  came  into  line 
with  the  current  of  air  which  the  young  man  could  send 
from  his  lungs,  the  lamp  was  blown  out.  Cornelius 
muttered  vague  words  and  swore  a  Dutch  oath ;  but  he 
turned  and  retraced  his  steps.  The  young  man  then 
rushed  to  his  room,  caught  up  his  dagger  and  returned 
to  the  blessed  window,  opened  it  softly  and  jumped 
upon  the  roof. 

Once  at  liberty  under  the  open  sky,  he  felt  weak,  so 


Maitre  Cornelius.  475 

happy  was  he.  Perhaps  the  extreme  agitation  of  his 
danger  or  the  boldness  of  the  enterprise  caused  his 
emotion ;  victory  is  often  as  perilous  as  battle.  He 
leaned  against  the  balustrade,  quivering  with  joy  and 
saying  to  himself  :  — 

"  By  which  chimney  can  I  get  to  her?" 
He  looked  at  them  all.  With  the  instinct  given  by 
love,  he  went  to  all  and  felt  them  to  discover  in  which 
there  had  been  a  fire.  Having  made  up  his  mind  on 
that  point,  the  daring  young  fellow  stuck  his  dagger 
securely  in  a  joint  between  two  stones,  fastened  a 
silken  ladder  to  it,  threw  the  ladder  down  the  chimney 
and  risked  himself  upon  it,  trusting  to  his  good  blade, 
and  to  the  chance  of  not  having  mistaken  his  mistress's 
room.  He  knew  not  whether  Saint- Vallier  was  asleep 
or  awake,  but  one  thing  he  was  resolved  upon,  he 
would  hold  the  countess  in  his  arms  if  it  cost  the 
life  of  two  men. 

Presently  his  feet  gently  touched  the  warm  embers; 
he  bent  more  gently  still  and  saw  the  countess  seated 
in  an  armchair ;  and  she  saw  him.  Pale  with  joy  and 
palpitating,  the  timid  creature  showed  him,  by  the 
light  of  the  lamp,  Saint- Vallier  lying  in  a  bed  about 
ten  feet  from  her.  We  may  well  believe  their  burning 
silent  kisses  echoed  only  in  their  hearts. 


476  Maitre  Cornelius. 


III. 

THE  ROBBERY  OF  THE  JEWELS  OF  THE  DUKE 

OF  BAVARIA. 

The  next  day,  about  niue  in  the  morning,  as  Louis 
XI.  was  leaving  his  chapel  after  hearing  mass,  he  found 
Maitre  Cornelius  on  his  path. 

"  Good  luck  to  you,  crony,"  he  said,  shoving  up  his 
cap  in  his  hasty  way. 

44  Sire,  I  would  willingly  pay  a  thousand  gold  crowns 
if  I  could  have  a  moment's  talk  with  you  ;  I  have  found 
the  thief  who  stole  the  rubies  and  all  the  jewels  of  the 
Duke  of  —  " 

"  Let  us  hear  about  that,"  said  Louis  XL,  going  out 
into  the  courtyard  of  Plessis,  followed  by  his  silver- 
smith, Coyctier  his  physician,  Olivier  le  Daim,  and  the 
captain  of  his  Scottish  guard.  "Tell  me  about  it. 
Another  man  to  hang  for  you !     Hola,  Tristan  !  " 

The  grand  provost,  who  was  walking  up  and  down 
the  courtyard,  came  with  slow  steps,  like  a  dog  who 
exhibits  his  fidelity.  The  group  paused  under  a  tree. 
The  king  sat  down  on  a  bench  and  the  courtiers  made 
a  circle  about  him. 

44  Sire,  a  man  who  pretended  to  be  a  Fleming  has  got 
the  better  of  me  —  "  began  Cornelius. 

44  He  must  be  craftv  indeed,  that  fellow  !  "  exclaimed 
Louis,  wagging  his  head. 


Maitre  Cornelius.  477 

"  Oh,  yes!  "  replied  the  silversmith,  bitterly.  "  But 
methinks  he  'd  have  snared  you  yourself.  How  could 
I  distrust  a  poor  beggar  recommended  to  me  by  Ooster- 
linck,  one  hundred  thousand  francs  of  whose  money  I 
hold  in  my  hands?  I  will  wager  the  Jew's  letter  and 
seal  were  forged !  In  short,  sire,  I  found  myself  this 
morning  robbed  of  those  jewels  you  admired  so  much. 
They  have  been  ravished  from  me,  sire  !  To  steal  the 
jewels  of  the  Elector  of  Bavaria!  those  scoundrels  re- 
spect nothing  !  they  '11  steal  your  kingdom  if  you  don't 
take  care.  As  soon  as  I  missed  the  jewels  I  went  up 
to  the  room  of  that  apprentice,  who  is,  assuredly,  a 
past-master  in  thieving.  This  time  we  don't  lack 
proof.  He  had  forced  the  lock  of  his  door.  But 
when  he  got  back  to  his  room,  the  moon  was  down 
and  he  couldn't  find  all  the  screws.  Happily,  I  felt 
one  under  my  feet  when  I  entered  the  room.  He  was 
sound  asleep,  the  beggar,  tired  out.  Just  fancy, 
gentlemen,  he  got  down  into  my  strong-room  by  the 
chimney.  To-morrow,  or  to-night  rather,  I'll  roast 
him  alive.  He  had  a  silk  ladder,  and  his  clothes  were 
covered  with  marks  of  his  clambering  over  the  roof 
and  down  the  chimney.  He  meant  to  stay  with  me, 
and  ruin  me,  night  after  night,  the  bold  wretch !  But 
where  are  the  jewels?  The  country-folks  coming  into 
town  early  saw  him  on  the  roof.  He  must  have  had 
accomplices,  who  waited  for  him  by  that  embankment 
you  have  been  making.  Ah,  sire,  you  are  the  accom- 
plice of  fellows  who  come  in  boats ;  crack  !  they  get 
off  with  everything,  and  leave  no  traces !  But  we 
hold  this  fellow  as  a  key,  the  bold  scoundrel !  ah !  a 
fine  morsel  he  '11  be  for  the  sallows.     With  a  little  bit 


478  Maitre  Cornelius. 

of  questioning  beforehand,  we  shall  know  all.  Why, 
the  glory  of  your  reign  is  concerned  in  it !  there  ought 
not  to  be  robbers  in  the  land  under  so  great  a  king." 

The  king  was  not  listening.  He  had  fallen  into  one 
of  those  gloomy  meditations  which  became  so  frequent 
during  the  last  years  of  his  life.  A  deep  silence 
reigned. 

"  This  is  your  business,"  he  said  at  length  to  Tris- 
tan ;  "  take  you  hold  of  it." 

He  rose,  walked  a  few  steps  away,  and  the  courtiers 
left  him  alone.  Presently  he  saw  Cornelius,  mounted 
on  his  mule,  riding  away  in  company  with  the  grand 
provost. 

"  Where  are  those  thousand  gold  crowns?  "  he  called 
to  him. 

"  Ah!  sire,  you  are  too  great  a  king !  there  is  no 
sum  that  can  pay  for  your  justice." 

Louis  XI.  smiled.  The  courtiers  envied  the  frank 
speech  and  privileges  of  the  old  silversmith,  who 
promptly  disappeared  down  the  avenue  of  young  mul- 
berries which  led  from  Tours  to  Plessis. 

Exhausted  with  fatigue,  the  young  seigneur  had 
indeed  fallen  soundly  asleep.  Returning  from  his 
gallant  adventure,  he  no  longer  felt  the  same  courage 
and  ardor  to  defend  himself  against  distant  or  im- 
aginary dangers  with  which  he  had  rushed  into  the 
perils  of  the  night.  He  had  even  postponed  till  the 
morrow  the  cleaning  of  his  soiled  garments ;  a  great 
blunder,  in  which  all  else  conspired.  It  was  true  that, 
lacking  the  moonlight,  he  had  missed  finding  all  the 
screws  of  that  cursed  lock ;  he  had  no  patience  to 
look  for  them.     With  the  laisser-aller  of  a  tired  man, 


Maitre  Cornelius.  479 

he  trusted  to  his  luck,  which  had  so  far  served  him 
well.  He  did,  however,  make  a  sort  of  compact  with 
himself  to  awake  at  daybreak,  but  the  events  of  the 
day  and  the  agitations  of  the  night  did  not  allow  him 
to  keep  faith  with  himself.  Happiness  is  forgetful. 
Cornelius  no  longer  seemed  formidable  to  the  young 
man  when  he  threw  himself  on  the  pallet  where  so 
many  poor  wretches  had  wakened  to  their  doom  ;  and 
this  light-hearted  heedlessness  proved  his  ruin.  While 
the  king's  silversmith  rode  back  from  Plessis,  ac- 
companied by  the  grand  provost  and  his  redoubtable 
archers,  the  false  Goulenoire  was  being;  watched  bv 
the  old  sister,  seated  on  the  corkscrew  staircase  ob- 
livious of  the  cold,  and  knitting  socks  for  Cornelius. 

The  young  man  continued  to  dream  of  the  secret 
delights  of  that  charming  night,  ignorant  of  the  danger 
that  was  galloping  towards  him.  He  saw  himself  on  a 
cushion  at  the  feet  of  the  countess,  his  head  on  her 
knees  in  the  ardor  of  his  love  ;  he  listened  to  the  story 
of  her  persecutions  and  the  details  of  the  count's 
tyranny  ;  he  grew  pitiful  over  the  poor  lady,  who  was, 
in  truth,  the  best-loved  natural  daughter  of  Louis  XI. 
He  promised  her  to  go  on  the  morrow  and  reveal  her 
wrongs  to  that  terrible  father ;  everything,  he  assured 
her,  should  be  settled  as  they  wished,  the  marriage 
broken  off,  the  husband  banished,  —  and  all  this  with- 
in reach  of  that  husband's  sword,  of  which  they  might 
both  be  the  victims  if  the  slightest  noise  awakened 
him.  But  in  the  young  man's  dream  the  gleam  of  the 
lamp,  the  flame  of  their  eyes,  the  colors  of  the  stuffs 
and  the  tapestries  were  more  vivid,  more  of  love  was 
in  the  air,  more  fire  about  them,  than  there  had  been 


480  Maitre  Cornelius. 

in  the  actual  scene.  The  Marie  of  his  sleep  resisted 
far  less  than  the  living  Marie  those  adoring  looks, 
those  tender  entreaties,  those  adroit  silences,  those 
voluptuous  solicitations,  those  false  generosities,  which 
render  the  first  moments  of  a  passion  so  completely 
ardent,  and  shed  into  the  soul  a  fresh  delirium  at  each 
new  step  in  love. 

Following  the  amorous  jurisprudence  of  the  period, 
Marie  de  Saint-Vallier  granted  to  her  lover  all  the 
superficial  rights  of  the  tender  passion.  She  willingly 
allowed  him  to  kiss  her  feet,  her  robe,  her  hands,  her 
throat ;  she  avowed  her  love,  she  accepted  the  devo- 
tion and  life  of  her  lover ;  she  permitted  him  to  die  for 
her ;  she  yielded  to  an  intoxication  which  the  sternness 
of  her  semi-chastity  increased ;  but  farther  than  that 
she  would  not  go;  and  she  made  her  deliverance  the 
price  of  the  highest  rewards  of  his  love.  In  those 
days,  in  order  to  dissolve  a  marriage  it  was  necessary 
to  go  to  Rome  ;  to  obtain  the  help  of  certain  cardinals, 
and  to  appear  before  the  sovereign  pontiff  in  person 
armed  with  the  approval  of  the  king.  Marie  was  firm 
in  maintaining  her  liberty  to  love,  that  she  might  sacri- 
fice it  to  him  later.  Nearly  every  woman  in  those  days 
had  sufficient  power  to  establish  her  empire  over  the 
heart  of  a  man  in  a  way  to  make  that  passion  the  his- 
tory of  his  whole  life,  the  spring  and  principle  of  his 
highest  resolutions.  Women  were  a  power  in  France  ; 
they  were  so  many  sovereigns ;  they  had  forms  of 
noble  pride  ;  their  lovers  belonged  to  them  far  more 
than  they  gave  themselves  to  their  lovers ;  often  their 
love  cost  blood,  and  to  be  their  lover  it  was  necessary 
to  incur  great  dangers.     But  the  Marie  of  his  dream 


Maitre  Cornelius.  481 

made  small  defence  against  the  young  seigneur's  ardent 
entreaties.  Which  of  the  two  was  the  reality?  Did 
the  false  apprentice  in  his  dream  see  the  true  woman? 
Had  he  seen  in  the  h6tel  de  Poitiers  a  lady  masked  in 
virtue  ?  The  question  is  difficult  to  decide ;  and  the 
honour  of  women  demands  that  it  be  left,  as  it  were,  in 
litigation. 

At  the  moment  when  the  Marie  of  the  dream  may 
have  been  about  to  forget  her  high  dignity  as  mistress, 
the  lover  felt  himself  seized  by  an  iron  hand,  and  the 
sour  voice  of  the  grand  provost  said  to  him  :  — 

"  Come,  midnight  Christian,  who  seeks  God  on  the 
roofs,  wake  up !  " 

The  young  man  saw  the  black  face  of  Tristan  l'Her- 
mite  above  him,  and  recognized  his  sardonic  smile ; 
then,  on  the  steps  of  the  corkscrew  staircase,  he  saw 
Cornelius,  his  sister,  and  behind  them  the  provost 
guard.  At  that  sight,  and  observing  the  diabolical 
faces  expressing  either  hatred  or  curiosity  of  persons 
whose  business  it  was  to  hang  others,  the  so-called 
Philippe  Goulenoire  sat  up  on  his  pallet  and  rubbed 
his  eyes. 

"  31ort-Dieu!"  he  cried,  seizing  his  dagger,  which 
was  under  the  pillow.  "  Now  is  the  time  to  play  our 
knives." 

"Ho,  ho!"  cried  Tristan,  "that's  the  speech  of  a 
noble.  Methinks  I  see  Georges  d'Estouteville,  the 
nephew  of  the  grand  master  of  the  archives." 

Hearing  his  real  name  uttered  by  Tristan,  young 
d'Estouteville  thought  less  of  himself  than  of  the  dan- 
gers his  recognition  would  bring  upon  his  unfortunate 
mistress.     To  avert  suspicion  he  cried  out :  — 

31 


482  Maitre  Cornelius. 

"  Ventre- Mahom  !  help,  help  to  me,  comrades  !  " 

After  that  outcry,  made  by  a  man  who  was  realty  in 
despair,  the  young  courtier  gave  a  bound,  dagger  in 
hand,  and  reached  the  landing.  But  the  myrmidons  of 
the  grand  provost  were  accustomed  to  such  proceed 
ings.  When  Georges  d'Estouteville  reached  the  stairs 
they  seized  him  dexterously,  not  surprised  by  the  vig- 
orous thrust  he  made  at  them  with  his  dagger,  the 
blade  of  which  fortunately  slipped  on  the  corselet  of  a 
guard ;  then,  having  disarmed  him,  they  bound  his 
hands,  and  threw  him  on  the  pallet  before  their  leader, 
who  stood  motionless  and  thoughtful. 

Tristan  looked  silently  at  the  prisoner's  hands,  then 
he  said  to  Cornelius,  pointing  to  them  :  — 

"  Those  are  not  the  hands  of  a  beggar,  nor  of  an 
apprentice.     He  is  a  noble." 

"Say  a  thief!"  cried  the  torgonnier.  "  My  good 
Tristan,  noble  or  serf,  he  has  ruined  me,  the  villain ! 
I  want  to  see  his  feet  warmed  in  your  pretty  boots. 
He  is,  I  don't  doubt  it,  the  leader  of  that  gang  of 
devils,  visible  and  invisible,  who  know  all  my  secrets, 
open  my  locks,  rob  me,  murder  me!  They  have  grown 
rich  out  of  me,  Tristan.  Ha !  this  time  we  shall  get 
back  the  treasure,  for  the  fellow  has  the  face  of  the 
king  of  Egypt.  I  shall  recover  my  dear  rubies,  and  all 
the  sums  I  have  lost ;  and  our  worthy  king  shall  have 
his  share  in  the  harvest." 

"  Oh,  our  hiding-places  are  much  more  secure  than 
yours  !  "  said  Georges,  smiling. 

"Ha!  the  damned  thief,  he  confesses!"  cried  the 
miser. 

The  grand  provost  was  engaged  in  attentively  ex- 


Maitre  Cornelius.  483 

amining  Georges  d'Estouteville's  clothes  and  the  lock 
of  the  door. 

"  How  did  you  get  out  those  screws?" 

Georges  kept  silence. 

"  Oh,  very  good,  be  silent  if  you  choose.  You  will 
soon  confess  on  the  holy  rack,"  said  Tristan. 

"  That 's  what  I  call  business  !  "  cried  Cornelius. 

"  Take  him  off,"  said  the  grand  provost  to  the  guards. 

Georges  d'Estouteville  asked  permission  to  dress  him- 
self. On  a  sign  from  their  chief,  the  men  put  on  his 
clothing  with  the  clever  rapidity  of  a  nurse  who  profits 
by  the  momentary  tranquillity  of  her  nursling. 

An  immense  crowd  cumbered  the  rue  du  Murier.  The 
growls  of  the  populace  kept  increasing,  and  seemed  the 
precursors  of  a  riot.  From  early  morning  the  news  of 
the  robbery  had  spread  through  the  town.  On  all  sides 
the  "  apprentice,"  said  to  be  young  and  handsome,  had 
awakened  public  sympathy,  and  revived  the  hatred  felt 
against  Cornelius  ;  so  that  there  was  not  a  young  man 
in  the  town,  nor  a  young  woman  with  a  fresh  face  and 
pretty  feet  to  exhibit,  who  was  not  determined  to  see 
the  victim.  When  Georges  issued  from  the  house, 
led  by  one  of  the  provost's  guard,  who,  after  he  had 
mounted  his  horse,  kept  the  strong  leathern  thong  that 
bound  the  prisoner  tightly  twisted  round  his  arm,  a 
horrible  uproar  arose.  Whether  the  populace  merely 
wished  to  see  this  newr  victim,  or  whether  it  intended  to 
rescue  him,  certain  it  is  that  those  behind  pressed  those 
in  front  upon  the  little  squad  of  cavalry  posted  around 
the  Malemaison.  At  this  moment,  Cornelius,  aided  by 
his  sister,  closed  the  door,  and  slammed  the  iron  shut- 
ters with  the  violeuce  of  panic  terror.     Tristan,  who 


484  Maitre  Cornelius. 

was  not  accustomed  to  respect  the  populace  of  those 
clays  (inasmuch  as  they  were  not  yet  the  sovereign 
people),  cared  little  for  a  probable  riot. 

"  Push  on  !  push  on  !  "  he  said  to  his  men. 

At  the  voice  of  their  leader  the  archers  spurred  their 
horses  towards  the  end  of  the  street.  The  crowd, 
seeing  one  or  two  of  their  number  knocked  down  by 
the  horses  and  trampled  on,  and  some  others  pressed 
against  the  sides  of  the  houses  and  nearly  suffocated, 
took  the  wiser  course  of  retreating  to  their  homes. 

"  Make  room  for  the  king's  justice  !  "  cried  Tristan. 
"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  Do  you  want  to  be  hanged 
too?  Go  home,  my  friends,  go  home;  your  dinner  is 
getting  burnt.  Hey !  my  good  woman,  go  and  darn 
your  husband's  stockings  ;  get  back  to  your  needles." 

Though  such  speeches  showed  that  the  grand  provost 
was  in  good  humor,  they  made  the  most  obstreperous 
fly  as  if  he  were  flinging  the  plague  upon  them. 

At  the  moment  when  the  first  movement  of  the  crowd 
took  place,  Georges  d'Estouteville  was  stupefied  at  see- 
ing, at  one  of  the  windows  of  the  hotel  de  Poitiers,  his 
dear  Marie  de  Saint- Vallier,  laughing  with  the  count. 
She  was  mocking  at  /iim,  poor  devoted  lover,  who  was 
going  to  his  death  for  her.  But  perhaps  she  was  only 
amused  at  seeing  the  caps  of  the  populace  carried  off 
on  the  spears  of  the  archers.  We  must  be  twenty- 
three  years  old,  rich  in  illusions,  able  to  believe  in  a 
woman's  love,  loving  ourselves  with  all  the  forces  of 
our  being,  risking  our  life  with  delight  on  the  faith 
of  a  kiss,  and  then  betrayed,  to  understand  the  fury 
of  hatred  and  despair  which  took  possession  of  Georges 
d'Estouteville's    heart   at    the   sight   of   his   laughing 

d7  CD  f 


Maitre  Cornelius.  485 

mistress,  from  whom  he  received  a  cold  and  indifferent 
glance.  No  doubt  she  had  been  there  some  time  ;  she 
was  leaning  from  the  window  with  her  arms  on  a 
cushion  ;  she  was  at  her  ease,  and  her  old  man  seemed 
content.  He,  too,  was  laughing,  the  cursed  hunch- 
back !  A  few  tears  escaped  the  eyes  of  the  young 
man ;  but  when  Marie  de  Saint- Vallier  saw  them  she 
turned  hastily  away.  Those  tears  were  suddenly  dried, 
however,  when  Georges  beheld  the  red  and  white  plumes 
of  the  page  who  was  devoted  to  his  interests.  The 
count  took  no  notice  of  this  servitor,  who  advanced  to 
his  mistress  on  tiptoe.  After  the  page  had  said  a  few 
words  in  her  ear,  Marie  returned  to  the  window. 
Escaping  for  a  moment  the  perpetual  watchfulness  of 
her  tyrant,  she  cast  one  glance  upon  Georges  that  was 
brilliant  with  the  fires  of  love  and  hope,  seeming  to 
say:  — 

"  I  am  watching  over  you." 

Had  she  cried  the  words  aloud  to  him,  she  could  not 
have  expressed  their  meaning  more  plainly  than  in  that 
glance,  full  of  a  thousand  thoughts,  in  which  terror, 
hope,  pleasure,  the  dangers  of  their  mutual  situation 
all  took  part.  He  had  passed,  in  that  one  moment, 
from  heaven  to  martyrdom  and  from  martyrdom  back 
to  heaven  !  So  then,  the  brave  young  seigneur,  light- 
hearted  and  content,  walked  gayly  to  his  doom ;  think- 
ing that  the  horrors  of  the  "question"  were  not 
sufficient  payment  for  the  delights  of  his  love. 

As  Tristan  was  about  leaving  the  rue  du  Miirier,  his 
people  stopped  him,  seeing  an  officer  of  the  Scottish 
guard  riding  towards  them  at  full  speed. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  the  provost. 


486  Maitre  Cornelius. 

"  Nothing  that  concerns  you,"  replied  the  officer,  dis- 
dainfully. "  The  king  has  sent  me  to  fetch  the  Comte 
and  Comtesse  de  Saint-Vallier,  whom  he  invites  to 
dinner." 

The  grand  provost  had  scarcely  reached  the  embank- 
ment leading  to  Plessis,  when  the  count  and  his  wife, 
both  mounted,  she  on  her  white  mule,  he  on  his  horse, 
and  followed  by  two  pages,  joined  the  archers,  in  or- 
der to  enter  Plessis-lez-Tours  in  company.  All  were 
moving  slowly.  Georges  was  on  foot,  between  two 
guards  on  horseback,  one  of  whom  held  him  still  by 
the  leathern  thong.  Tristan,  the  count,  and  his  wife 
were  naturally  in  advance ;  the  criminal  followed 
them.  Mingling  with  the  archers,  the  young  page 
questioned  them,  speaking  sometimes  to  the  prisoner, 
so  that  he  adroitly  managed  to  say  to  him  in  a  low 
voice :  — 

"I  jumped  the  garden  wall  and  took  a  letter  to 
Plessis  from  madame  to  the  king.  She  came  near  dy- 
ing when  she  heard  of  the  accusation  against  you. 
Take  courage.  She  is  going  now  to  speak  to  the  king 
about  you." 

Love  had  already  given  strength  and  wiliness  to  the 
countess.  Her  laughter  was  part  of  the  heroism  which 
women  display  in  the  great  crises  of  life. 

In  spite  of  the  singular  fancy  which  possessed  the 
author  of  "  Quentin  Durward  "  to  place  the  royal  castle 
of  Plessis-lez-Tours  upon  a  height,  we  must  content 
ourselves  by  leaving  it  where  it  really  was,  namely  on 
low  land,  protected  on  either  side  by  the  Cher  and  the 
Loire  ;  also  by  the  canal  Sainte-Anne,  so  named  by 
Louis  XL  in  honor  of  his  beloved  daughter,  Madame 


Maitre  Cornelius.  487 

de  Beaujeu.  By  uniting  the  two  rivers  between  the 
city  of  Tours  and  Plessis  this  canal  not  only  served 
as  a  formidable  protection  to  the  castle,  but  it  offered 
a  most  precious  road  to  commerce.  On  the  side 
towards  Brehemont,  a  vast  and  fertile  plain,  the  park 
was  defended  by  a  moat,  the  remains  of  which  still 
show  its  enormous  breadth  and  depth.  At  a  period 
when  the  power  of  artillery  was  still  in  embryo,  the 
position  of  Plessis,  long  since  chosen  by  Louis  XI. 
for  his  favorite  retreat,  might  be  considered  impreg- 
nable. The  castle,  built  of  brick  and  stone,  had  noth- 
ing remarkable  about  it ;  but  it  was  surrounded  by 
noble  trees,  and  from  its  windows  could  be  seen, 
through  vistas  cut  in  the  park  (plexitium),  the  finest 
points  of  view  in  the  world.  No  rival  mansion  rose 
near  this  solitary  castle,  standing  in  the  very  centre  of 
the  little  plain  reserved  for  the  king  and  guarded  by 
four  streams  of  water. 

If  we  may  believe  tradition,  Louis  XL  occupied  the 
west  wing,  and  from  his  chamber  he  could  see,  at  a 
glance  the  course  of  the  Loire,  the  opposite  bank  of 
the  river,  the  pretty  valley  which  the  Croisille  waters, 
and  part  of  the  slopes  of  Saint-Cyr.  Also,  from  the 
windows  that  opened  on  the  courtyard,  he  saw  the  en- 
trance to  his  fortress  and  the  embankment  by  which 
he  had  connected  his  favorite  residence  with  the  city 
of  Tours.  If  Louis  XI.  had  bestowed  upon  the  build- 
ing of  his  castle  the  luxury  of  architecture  which 
Francois  I.  displayed  afterwards  at  Chambord,  the 
dwelling  of  the  kings  of  France  would  ever  have 
remained  in  Touraine.  It  is  enough  to  see  this  splen- 
did position  and  its  magical  effects  to  be  convinced 


488  Maitre  Cornelius. 

of  its   superiority   over   the    sites   of   all   other  royal 
residences. 

Louis  XL,  now  in  the  fifty-seventh  year  of  his  age, 
had  scarcely  more  than  three  years  longer  to  live ; 
already  he  felt  the  coming  on  of  death  in  the  attacks  of 
his  mortal  malady.  Delivered  from  his  enemies  ;  on  the 
point  of  increasing  the  territory  of  France  by  the  pos- 
sessions of  the  Dukes  of  Burgundy  through  the  marriage 
of  the  Dauphin  with  Marguerite,  heiress  of  Burgundy 
(brought  about  by  means  of  Desquerdes,  commander 
of  his  troops  in  Flanders)  ;  having  established  his  au- 
thority everywhere,  and  now  meditating  ameliorations 
in  his  kingdom  of  all  kinds,  he  saw  time  slipping  past 
him  rapidly  with  no  further  troubles  than  those  of  old 
age.  Deceived  by  every  one,  even  by  the  minions 
about  him,  experience  had  intensified  his  natural  dis- 
trust. The  desire  to  live  became  in  him  the  egotism 
of  a  king  who  has  incarnated  himself  in  his  people ;  he 
wished  to  prolong  his  life  in  order  to  carry  out  his  vast 
designs. 

All  that  the  common-sense  of  publicists  and  the  gen- 
ius of  revolutions  has  since  introduced  of  change  in 
the  character  of  monarchy,  Louis  XL  had  thought  of 
and  devised.  Unity  of  taxation,  equality  of  subjects 
before  the  law  (the  prince  being  then  the  law)  were  the 
objects  of  his  bold  endeavors.  On  All-Saints'  eve  he 
had  gathered  together  the  learned  goldsmiths  of  his 
kingdom  for  the  purpose  of  establishing  in  France  a 
unity  of  weights  and  measures,  as  he  had  already  es- 
tablished the  unity  of  power.  Thus,  his  vast  spirit 
hovered  like  an  eagle  over  his  empire,  joining  in  a 
singular  manner  the  prudence  of  a  king  to  the  natural 


Maitre  Cornelius.  489 

idiosyncrasies  of  a  man  of  lofty  aims.  At  no  period 
of  our  history  has  the  great  figure  of  Monarchy  been 
finer  or  more  poetic.  Amazing  assemblage  of  con- 
trasts !  a  great  power  in  a  feeble  body ;  a  spirit  unbe- 
lieving as  to  all  things  here  below,  devoutly  believing 
in  the  practices  of  religion  ;  a  man  struggling  with  two 
powers  greater  than  his  own  —  the  present  and  the 
future ;  the  future  in  which  he  feared  eternal  punish- 
ment, a  fear  which  led  him  to  make  so  many 
sacrifices  to  the  Church ;  the  present,  namely  his 
life  itself,  for  the  saving  of  which  he  blindly  obeyed 
Coyctier.  This  king,  who  crushed  down  all  about  him, 
was  himself  crushed  down  by  remorse,  and  by  disease 
in  the  midst  of  the  great  poem  of  defiant  monarchy  in 
which  all  power  was  concentrated.  It  was  once  more 
the  gigantic  and  ever  magnificent  combat  of  Man  in 
the  highest  manifestation  of  his  forces  tilting  against 
Nature. 

While  awaiting  his  dinner,  a  repast  which  was  taken 
in  those  days  between  eleven  o'clock  and  mid-day, 
Louis  XL,  returning  from  a  short  promenade,  sat  down 
in  a  huge  tapestried  chair  near  the  fireplace  in  his 
chamber.  Olivier  le  Daim,  and  his  doctor,  Coyctier, 
looked  at  each  other  without  a  word,  standing  in  the 
recess  of  a  window  and  watching  their  master,  who 
presently  seemed  asleep.  The  only  sound  that  was 
heard  were  the  steps  of  the  two  chamberlains  on  ser- 
vice, the  Sire  de  Montresor,  and  Jean  Dufou,  Sire  de 
Montbazon,  who  were  walking  up  and  down  the  ad- 
joining hall.  These  two  Tourainean  seigneurs  looked 
at  the  captain  of  the  Scottish  guard,  who  was  sleeping 
in  his  chair,  according  to  his  usual  custom.     The  king 


490  Maitre  Cornelius. 

himself  appeared  to  be  dozing.  His  head  had  drooped 
upon  his  breast ;  his  cap,  pulled  forward  on  his  fore- 
head, hid  his  eyes.  Thus  seated  in  his  high  chair,  sur- 
mounted by  the  royal  crown,  lie  seemed  crouched  to- 
gether like  a  man  who  had  fallen  asleep  in  the  midst 
of  some  deep  meditation. 

At  this  moment  Tristan  and  his  cortege  crossed  the 
canal  by  the  bridge  of  Sainte-Anne,  about  two  hundred 
feet  from  the  entrance  to  Plessis. 

"  Who  is  that?  "  said  the  king. 

The  two  courtiers  questioned  each  other  with  a  look 
of  surprise. 

"  He  is  dreaming,"  said  Coyctier,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  JPasques-Dieu  !  "  cried  Louis  XL,  "do  you  think 
me  mad?  People  are  crossing  the  bridge.  It  is  true 
I  am  near  the  chimney,  and  I  may  hear  sounds  more 
easily  than  you.  That  effect  of  nature  might  be  util- 
ized," he  added  thoughtfully. 

"  What  a  man !  "  said  le  Daim. 

Louis  XL  rose  and  went  toward  one  of  the  windows 
that  looked  on  the  town.  He  saw  the  grand  provost, 
and  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Ha,  ha!  here's  my  crony  and  his  thief.  And 
here  comes  my  little  Marie  de  Saint- Vallier ;  I  'd  for- 
gotten all  about  it.  Olivier,"  he  continued,  addressing 
the  barber,  u  go  and  tell  Monsieur  de  Montbazon  to 
serve  some  good  Bourgueil  wine  at  dinner,  and  see  that 
the  cook  does  n't  forget  the  lampreys ;  Madame  la 
comtesse  likes  both  those  things.  Can  I  eat  lam- 
preys ?  "  he  added,  after  a  pause,  looking  anxiously 
at  Coyctier. 

For  all  answer  the  physician  began  to  examine  his 


Maitre  Cornelius.  491 

master's  face.     The  two  men  were  a  picture  in  them- 
selves. 

History  and  the  romance-writers  have  cousecrated 
the  brown  camlet  coat,  and  the  breeches  of  the  same 
stuff,  worn  by  Louis  XI.  His  cap,  decorated  with 
leaden  medallions,  aud  his  collar  of  the  order  of  Saint- 
Michel,  are  not  less  celebrated ;  but  no  writer,  no 
painter  has  represented  the  face  of  that  terrible  mon- 
arch in  his  last  years,  —  a  sickly,  hollow,  yellow  and 
brown  face,  all  the  features  of  which  expressed  a  sour 
craftiness,  a  cold  sarcasm.  In  that  mask  was  the  fore- 
head of  a  great  man,  a  brow  furrowed  with  wrinkles, 
and  weighty  with  high  thoughts ;  but  in  his  cheeks 
and  on  his  lips  there  was  something  indescribably  vul- 
gar and  common.  Looking  at  certain  details  of  that 
countenance  you  would  have  thought  him  a  debauched 
husbandman,  or  a  miserly  pedler ;  and  yet,  above 
these  vague  resemblances  and  the  decrepitude  of  a 
dying  old  man,  the  king,  the  man  of  power,  rose 
supreme.  His  eyes,  of  a  light  yellow,  seemed  at  first 
sight  extinct ;  but  a  spark  of  courage  and  of  anger 
lurked  there,  and  at  the  slightest  touch  it  could  burst 
into  flames  and  cast  fire  about  him.  The  doctor  was  a 
stout  burgher,  with  a  florid  face,  dressed  in  black, 
peremptory,  greedy  of  gain,  and  self-important.  These 
two  personages  were  framed,  as  it  were,  in  that  pan- 
elled chamber,  hung  with  high-warped  tapestries  of 
Flanders,  the  ceiling  of  which,  made  of  carved  beams, 
was  blackened  by  smoke.  The  furniture,  the  bed,  all  in- 
laid with  arabesques  in  pewter,  would  seem  to-day  more 
precious  than  they  were  at  that  period  when  the  arts 
were  beginning  to  produce  their  choicest  masterpieces. 


492  Maitre  Cornelius. 

"  Lampreys  are  not  good  for  you,"  replied  the 
physician. 

That  title,  recently  substituted  for  the  former  term 
of  "  myrrh-master,"  is  still  applied  to  the  faculty  in 
England.  The  name  was  at  this  period  given  to  doc- 
tors everywhere. 

"  Then  what  may  I  eat?"  asked  the  king,  humbly. 

"  Salt  mackerel.  Otherwise,  you  have  so  much  bile 
in  motion  that  you  may  die  on  All-Souls'  Day." 

"  To-day  !  "  cried  the  king  in  terror. 

"  Compose  yourself,  sire,"  replied  Coyctier.  "  I  am 
here.  Try  not  to  fret  your  mind  ;  find  some  way  to 
amuse  yourself." 

"  Ah!  "  said  the  king,  "  my  daughter  Marie  used  to 
succeed  in  that  difficult  business." 

As  he  spoke,  Imbert  de  Bastarnay,  sire  of  Montresor 
and  Bridore,  rapped  softly  on  the  royal  door.  On  re- 
ceiving the  king's  permission  he  entered  and  announced 
the  Comte  and  Comtesse  de  Saint- Vallier.  Louis  XI. 
made  a  sign.  Marie  appeared,  followed  by  her  old 
husband,  who  allowed  her  to  pass  in  first. 

"  Good-day,  my  children,"  said  the  king. 

"  Sire,"  replied  his  daughter  in  a  low  voice,  as  she 
embraced  him,  u  I  want  to  speak  to  you  in  secret." 

Louis  XI.  appeared  not  to  have  heard  her.  He 
turned  to  the  door  and  called  out  in  a  hollow  voice, 
"Hola,  Dufou!  " 

Dufou,  seigneur  of  Montbazon  and  grand  cup-bearer 
of  France,  entered  in  haste. 

"  Go  to  the  maitre  d'hdtel,  and  tell  him  I  must  have 
a  salt  mackerel  for  dinner.  And  go  to  Madame  de 
Beaujeu,  and  let  her  know  that  I  wish  to  dine  alone  to- 


Maitre  Cornelius.  493 

day.  Do  you  know,  madame,"  continued  the  king, 
pretending  to  be  slightly  angry,  "  that  you  neglect  me? 
It  is  almost  three  years  since  I  have  seen  you.  Come, 
come  here,  my  pretty,"  he  added,  sitting  down  and 
holding  out  his  arms  to  her.  "  How  thin  you  have 
grown!  Why  have  you  let  her  grow  so  thin?"  said 
the  king,  roughly,  addressing  the  Comte  de  Poitiers. 

The  jealous  husband  cast  so  frightened  a  look  at  his 
wife  that  she  almost  pitied  hiin. 

44  Happiness,  sire  !  "  he  stammered. 

"  Ah!  you  love  each  other  too  much,  —  is  that  it?  " 
said  the  king,  holding  his  daughter  between  his  knees. 
"  I  did  right  to  call  you  Mary-full-of -grace.  Coyctier, 
leave  us!  Now,  then,  what  do  you  want  of  me?"  he 
said  to  his  daughter  the  moment  the  doctor  had  gone. 
"  After  sending  me  your  —  " 

In  this  danger,  Marie  boldly  put  her  hand  on  the 
king's  lips  and  said  in  his  ear,  — 

u  I  always  thought  you  cautious  and  penetrating." 

"  Saint-Vallier,"  said  the  king,  laughing,  "  I  think 
that  Bridore  has  something  to  say  to  you." 

The  count  left  the  room  ;  but  he  made  a  gesture 
with  his  shoulders  well  known  to  his  wife,  who  could 
guess  the  thoughts  of  the  jealous  man,  and  knew  she 
must  forestall  his  cruel  designs. 

"  Tell  me,  my  child,  how  do  you  think  I  am,  —  hey? 
Do  I  seem  changed  to  }7ou  ?  " 

"  Sire,  do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  the  real  truth,  or 
would  you  rather  I  deceived  you?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  want  to  know 
truly  what  to  expect." 

"  In  that  case,  I  think  you  look  very  ill  to-day ;  but 


494  Maitre  Cornelius. 

you  will  not  let  my  truthfulness  injure  the  success  of 
my  cause,  will  you?" 

"What  is  your  cause?  "  asked  the  king,  frowning 
and  passing  a  hand  across  his  forehead. 

"Ah,  sire,"  she  replied,  "  the  young  man  you  have 
had  arrested  for  robbing  your  silversmith  Cornelius, 
and  who  is  now  in  the  hands  of  the  grand  provost,  is 
innocent  of  the  robbery." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  "  asked  the  king.  Marie 
lowered  her  head  and  blushed. 

"I  need  not  ask  if  there  is  love  in  this  business," 
said  the  king,  raising  his  daughter's  head  gently  and 
stroking  her  chin.  "  If  you  don't  confess  every  morn- 
ing, my  daughter,  you  will  go  to  hell." 

"  Cannot  you  oblige  me  without  forcing  me  to  tell 
my  secret  thoughts  ?  " 

"Where  would  be  the  pleasure?"  cried  the  king, 
seeing  only  an  amusement  in  this  affair. 

"Ah!  do  you  want  your  pleasure  to  cost  me 
grief  ?  " 

"  Oh !  you  sly  little  girl,  haven't  you  any  confidence 
in  me  ?  " 

"  Then,  sire,  set  that  young  nobleman  at  liberty." 

"  So !  he  is  a  nobleman,  is  he  ? "  cried  the  king. 
"Then  he  is  not  an  apprentice  ?" 

"He  is  certainly  innocent,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  see  it  so,"  said  the  king,  coldly.  "I  am 
the  law  and  justice  of  my  kingdom,  and  I  must  punish 
evil-doers." 

"  Come,  don't  put  on  that  solemn  face  of  yours! 
Give  me  the  life  of  that  young  man." 

"Is  it  yours  already  ?" 


Maitre  Cornelius.  495 

"Sire,"  she  said,  "I  am  pure  and  virtuous.  You 
are  jesting  at  —  " 

"Then,"  said  Louis  XI.,  interrupting  her,  "  as  I  am 
not  to  know  the  truth,  I  think  Tristan  had  better  clear 
it  up." 

Marie  turned  pale,  but  she  made  a  violent  effort  and 
cried  out :  — 

"Sire,  I  assure  yon,  you  will  regret  all  this.  The 
so-called  thief  stole  nothing.  If  you  will  grant  me  his 
pardon,  I  will  tell  you  everything,  even  though  you 
may  punish  me." 

"Ho,  ho!  this  is  getting  serious,"  cried  the  king, 
shoving  up  his  cap.      "  Speak  out,   my  daughter." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  putting  her  lips  to 
her  father's  ear,  "  he  was  in  my  room  all  night." 

"  He  could  be  there,  and  yet  rob  Cornelius.  Two 
robberies !  " 

"  I  have  your  blood  in  my  veins,  and  I  was  not  born 
to  love  a  scoundrel.  That  young  seigneur  is  the  nephew 
of  the  captain-general  of  your  archers." 

"Well,  well!'  cried  the  king;  "you  are  hard  to 
confess." 

With  the  words  the  king  pushed  his  daughter  from 
his  knee,  and  hurried  to  the  door  of  the  room,  but 
softly  on  tiptoe,  making  no  noise.  For  the  last  mo- 
ment or  two,  the  light  from  a  window  in  the  adjoining 
hall,  shining  through  a  space  below  the  door,  had  shown 
him  the  shadow  of  a  listener's  foot  projected  on  the 
floor  of  his  chamber.  He  opened  the  door  abruptly,  and 
surprised  the  Comte  de  Saint- Vallier  eavesdropping. 

"  Pasques-Dieu ! "  he  cried;  kt  here's  an  audacity 
that  deserves  the  axe." 


496  Maitre  Cornelius. 


u 


Sire,"  replied  Saint- Vallier,  haughtily,  "  I  would 
prefer  an  axe  at  my  throat  to  the  ornament  of  mar- 
riage on  my  head." 

14  You  may  have  both,"  said  Louis  XI.  "  None  of 
you  are  safe  from  such  infirmities,  messieurs.  Go  into 
the  farther  hall.  Conyngham,"  continued  the  king, 
addressing  the  captain  of  the  guard,  "you  are  asleep! 
Where  is  Monsieur  de  Bridore  ?  Why  do  you  let  me 
be  approached  in  this  way  ?  Pasques-Dieu !  the  lowest 
burgher  in  Tours  is  better  served  than  I  am." 

After  scolding  thus,  Louis  re-entered  his  room  ;  but 
he  took  care  to  draw  the  tapestried  curtain,  which  made 
a  second  door,  intended  more  to  stifle  the  words  of  the 
king  than  the  whistling  of  the  harsh  north  wind. 

"  So,  my  daughter,"  he  said,  liking  to  play  with  her 
as  a  cat  plays  with  a  mouse,  "  Georges  d'Estoute- 
ville  was  your  lover  last  night  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  sire!" 

"No!  Ah!  by  Saint-Carpion,  he  deserves  to  die. 
Did  the  scamp  not  think  my  daughter  beautiful  ?  " 

"Oh!  that  is  not  it,"  she  said.  "He  kissed  my 
feet  and  hands  with  an  ardor  that  might  have  touched 
the  most  virtuous  of  women.  He  loves  me  truly  in  all 
honor." 

"  Do  you  take  me  for  Saint-Louis,  and  suppose  I 
should  believe  such  nonsense  ?  A  young  fellow,  made 
like  him,  to  have  risked  his  life  just  to  kiss  your  little 
slippers  or  your  sleeves  !     Tell  that  to  others." 

"But,  sire,  it  is  true.  And  he  came  for  another 
purpose." 

Having  said  those  words,  Marie  felt  that  she  had  risked 
the  life  of  her  husband,  for  Louis  instantly  demanded  : 


Ma  it  re  Cornelius.  497 

"  What  purpose?" 

The  adventure  amused  him  immensely.  But  he  did 
not  expect  the  strange  confidences  his  daughter  now 
made  to  him  after  stipulating  for  the  pardon  of  her 
husband. 

"Ho,  ho,  Monsieur  de  Saint- Vallier !  So  you  dare 
to  shed  the  royal  blood!  "  cried  the  king,  his  eyes 
lighting  with  anger. 

At  this  moment  the  bell  of  Plessis  sounded  the  hour 
of  the  king's  dinner.  Leaning  on  the  arm  of  his 
daughter,  Louis  XL  appeared  with  contracted  brows 
on  the  threshold  of  his  chamber,  and  found  all  his  ser- 
vitors in  waiting.  He  cast  an  ambiguous  look  on  the 
Comte  de  Saint-Vallier,  thinking  of  the  sentence  he 
meant  to  pronounce  upon  him.  The  deep  silence  which 
reigned  was  presently  broken  by  the  steps  of  Tristan 
FHermite  as  he  mounted  the  grand  staircase.  The 
grand  provost  entered  the  hall,  and,  advancing  toward 
the  king,  said  :  — 

"  Sire,  the  affair  is  settled." 

"  What!  is  it  all  over?  "  said  the  king. 

"Our  man  is  in  the  hands  of  the  monks.  He  con- 
fessed the  theft  after  a  touch  of  the  q uestion." 

The  countess  gave  a  sigh,  and  turned  pale ;  she  could 
not  speak,  but  looked  at  the  king.  That  look  was  ob- 
served by  Saint- Vallier,  who  muttered  in  a  low  tone  : 
"I  am  betrayed;  that  thief  is  an  acquaintance  of  my 
wife." 

"  Silence!  "  cried  the  kins;.  "Some  one  is  here  who 
will  wear  out  my  patience.  Go  at  once  and  put  a  stop 
to  the  execution,"  he  continued,  addressing  the  grand 
provost.     "  You  will  answer  with  your  own  body  for 

32 


498  Maitre  Cornelius. 

that  of  the  criminal,  my  friend.  This  affair  must  be 
better  sifted,  and  I  reserve  to  myself  the  doing  of  it. 
Set  the  prisoner  at  liberty  provisionally  ;  I  can  always 
recover  him  ;  these  robbers  have  retreats  they  frequent, 
lairs  where  they  lurk.  Let  Cornelius  know  that  I  shall 
be  at  his  house  to-night  to  begin  the  inquiry  myself. 
Monsieur  cle  Saint- Vallier,"  said  the  king,  looking 
fixedly  at  the  count,  "  I  know  about  you.  All  your 
blood  could  not  pay  for  one  drop  of  mine ;  do  you 
hear  me?  By  our  Lady  of  Clery !  you  have  committed 
crimes  of  lese-majesty.  Did  I  give  you  such  a  pretty 
wife  to  make  her  pale  and  weakly?  Go  back  to  your 
own  house,  and  make  your  preparations  for  a  long 
journey." 

The  king  stopped  at  these  words  from  a  habit  of 
cruelty  ;  then  he  added  :  — 

"  You  will  leave  to-night  to  attend  to  my  affairs 
with  the  government  of  Venice.  You  need  be  under 
no  anxiety  about  your  wife  ;  I  shall  take  charge  of  her 
at  Plessis  ;  she  will  certainly  be  safe  here.  Henceforth 
I  shall  watch  over  her  with  greater  care  than  I  have 
done  since  I  married  her  to  you." 

Hearing  these  words,  Marie  silently  pressed  her 
father's  arm  as  if  to  thank  him  for  his  mercy  and  good- 
ness. As  for  Louis  XL,  he  was  laughing  to  himself 
in  his  sleeve. 


Maitre  Cornelius.  499 


IV. 


THE     HIDDEN    TREASURE. 


Louis  XT.  was  fond  of  intervening  in  the  affairs 
of  bis  subjects,  and  he  was  always  ready  to  mingle 
his  royal  majesty  with  the  burgher  life.  This  taste, 
severely  blamed  by  some  historians,  was  really  only 
a  passion  for  the  incognito,  one  of  the  greatest  pleas- 
ures of  princes,  —  a  sort  of  momentary  abdication, 
which  enables  them  to  put  a  little  real  life  into  their  ex- 
istence, made  insipid  by  the  lack  of  opposition.  Louis 
XL,  however,  played  the  incognito  openly.  On 
these  occasions  he  was  always  the  good  fellow,  en- 
deavoring to  please  the  people  of  the  middle  classes, 
whom  he  made  his  allies  against  feudality.  For  some 
time  past  he  had  found  no  opportunity  to  "make 
himself  populace  "  and  espouse  the  domestic  interests 
of  some  man  engarrie  (an  old  word  still  used  in 
Tours,  meaning  engaged)  in  litigious  affairs,  so  that  he 
shouldered  the  anxieties  of  Maitre  Cornelius  eagerly, 
and  also  the  secret  sorrows  of  the  Comtesse  de  Saint- 
Vallier.  Several  times  during  dinner  he  said  to  his 
daughter :  — 

"Who,  think  you,  could  have  robbed  my  silver- 
smith? The  robberies  now  amount  to  over  twelve 
hundred  thousand  crowns  in  eight  years.  Twelve 
hundred  thousand  crowns,  messieurs  ! '  he  continued, 
looking    at    the    seigneurs    who    were    serving    him. 


500  Maitre  Cornelius. 

iiJVotre  Dame!  with  a  sum  like  that  what  absolutions 
could  be  bought  in  Rome !  And  I  might,  Pasqaes- 
Dieu!  bank  the  Loire,  or,  better  still,  conquer  Pied- 
mont, a  fine  fortification  ready-made  for  this  kingdom." 

When  dinner  was  over,  Louis  XL  took  his  daughter, 
his  doctor,  and  the  grand  provost,  with  an  escort  of 
soldiers,  and  rode  to  the  hotel  de  Poitiers  in  Tours, 
where  he  found,  as  he  expected,  the  Comte  de  Saint- 
Vallier  awaiting  his  wife,  perhaps  to  make  away  with 
her  life. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  king,  "  I  told  you  to  start  at 
once.  Say  farewell  to  your  wife  now,  and  go  to  the 
frontier ;  you  will  be  accompanied  by  an  escort  of 
honor.  As  for  your  instructions  and  credentials,  they 
will  be  in  Venice  before  you  get  there." 

Louis  then  gave  the  order  —  not  without  adding 
certain  secret  instructions  —  to  a  lieutenant  of  the 
Scottish  guard  to  take  a  squad  of  men  and  accompany 
the  ambassador  to  Venice.  Saint-Vallier  departed  in 
haste,  after  giving  his  wife  a  cold  kiss  which  he  would 
fain  have  made  deadly.  Louis  XL  then  crossed  over 
to  the  Malemaison,  eager  to  begin  the  unravelling  of 
the  melancholy  comedy,  lasting  now  for  eight  years, 
in  the  house  of  his  silversmith  ;  flattering  himself  that, 
in  his  quality  of  king,  he  had  enough  penetration  to 
discover  the  secret  of  the  robberies.  Cornelius  did  not 
see  the  arrival  of  the  escort  of  his  royal  master  without 
uneasiness. 

"  Are  all  those  persons  to  take  part  in  the  inquiry?  " 
he  said  to  the  king. 

Louis  XL  could  not  help  smiling  as  he  saw  the  fright 
of  the  miser  and  his  sister. 


Maitre  Cornelius.  501 

"  No,  my  old  crony,"  he  said  ;  "  don't  worry  your- 
self. They  will  sup  at  Plessis,  and  you  and  I  alone 
will  make  the  investigation.  I  am  so  good  in  detect- 
ing criminals,  that  I  will  wager  you  ten  thousand  crowns 
I  shall  do  so  now." 

"Find  him,  sire,  and  make  no  wager." 

They  went  at  once  into  the  strong  room,  where  the 
Fleming  kept  his  treasure.  There  Louis,  who  asked 
to  see,  in  the  first  place,  the  casket  from  which  the 
jewels  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  had  been  taken,  then 
the  chimney  down  which  the  robber  was  supposed  to 
have  descended,  easily  convinced  his  silversmith  of  the 
falsity  of  the  latter  supposition,  inasmuch  as  there  was 
no  soot  on  the  hearth,  —  where,  in  truth,  a  fire  was 
seldom  made,  —  and  no  sign  that  any  one  had  passed 
down  the  flue ;  and  moreover  that  the  chimney  issued 
at  a  part  of  the  roof  which  was  almost  inaccessible. 
At  last,  after  two  hours  of  close  investigation,  marked 
with  that  sagacit}7  which  distinguished  the  suspicious 
mind  of  Louis  XL,  it  was  clear  to  him,  beyond  all 
doubt,  that  no  one  had  forced  an  entrance  into  the 
strong-room  of  his  silversmith.  No  marks  of  violence 
were  on  the  locks,  nor  on  the  iron  coffers  which  con- 
tained the  gold,  silver,  and  jewels  deposited  as  securities 
by  wealthy  debtors. 

"If  the  robber  opened  this  box,"  said  the  king, 
why  did  he  take  nothing  out  of  it  but  the  jewels  of  the 
Duke  of  Bavaria?  What  reason  had  he  for  leaving 
that  pearl  necklace  which  la}T  beside  them?  A  queer 
robber ! " 

At  that  remark  the  unhappy  miser  turned  pale  ;  he 
and  the  king  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment. 


502  Maitre  Cornelius. 

"Then,  sire,  what  did  that  robber  whom  you  have 
taken  under  your  protection  come  to  do  here,  and  why 
did  he  prowl  about  at  night?" 

"  If  you  have  not  guessed  why,  my  crony,  I  order 
you  to  remain  in  ignorance.  That  is  one  of  my 
secrets." 

"Then  the  devil  is  in  my  house !  "  cried  the  miser, 
piteously. 

In  any  other  circumstances  the  king  would  have 
laughed  at  his  silversmith's  cry  ;  but  he  had  suddenly 
become  thoughtful,  and  was  now  casting  on  the  Flem- 
ing those  glances  peculiar  to  men  of  talent  and  power 
which  seem  to  penetrate  the  brain.  Cornelius  was 
frightened,  thinking  he  had  in  some  way  offended 
his  dangerous  master. 

"Devil  or  angel,  I  have  him,  the  guilty  man!" 
cried  Louis  XL  abruptly.  "  If  you  are  robbed  again 
to-night,  I  shall  know  to-morrow  who  did  it.  Make  that 
old  hag  you  call  your  sister  come  here,"  he  added. 

Cornelius  almost  hesitated  to  leave  the  king  alone  in 
the  room  with  his  hoards;  but  the  bitter  smile  on 
Louis's  withered  lips  determined  him.  Nevertheless 
he  hurried  back,   followed  by  the  old  woman. 

"Have  you  any  flour?"  demanded  the  king. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  we  have  laid  in  our  stock  for  the  winter," 
she  answered. 

"  Well,  go  and  fetch  some,"  said  the  king. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  with  our  flour,  sire?"  she 
cried,  not  the  least  impressed  by  his  ro}Tal  majesty. 

"Old  fool!"  said  Cornelius,  "go  and  execute  the 
orders  of  our  gracious  master.  Shall  the  king  lack 
flour?" 


Maitre  Cornelius.  503 

"  Our  good  flour !  "  she  grumbled,  as  she  went  down- 
stairs.    "Ah  !  my  flour  ! " 

Then  she  returned,  and  said  to  the  king  :  — 

"  Sire,  is  it  only  a  royal  notion  to  examine  my 
flour?" 

At  last  she  reappeared,  bearing  one  of  those  stout 
linen  bags  which,  from  time  immemorial,  have  been 
used  in  Touraine  to  carry  or  bring,  to  and  from  market, 
nuts,  fruits,  or  wheat.  The  bag  was  half  full  of  flour. 
The  housekeeper  opened  it  and  showed  it  to  the  king, 
on  whom  she  cast  the  rapid,  savage  look  with  which 
old  maids  appear  to  squirt  venom  upon  men. 

"  It  costs  six  sous  the  septeree,  "  she  said. 

"  What  does  that  matter?  "  said  the  king.  "  Spread 
it  on  the  floor ;  but  be  careful  to  make  an  even  layer 
of  it  —  as  if  it  had  fallen  like  snow." 

The  old  maid  did  not  comprehend.  This  proposal 
astonished  her  as  though  the  end  of  the  world  had 
come. 

"  My  flour,  sire  !  on  the  ground  !     But  —  " 

Maitre  Cornelius,  who  was  beginning  to  understand, 
though  vaguely,  the  intentions  of  the  king,  seized  the 
bag  and  gently  poured  its  contents  on  the  floor.  The 
old  woman  quivered,  but  she  held  out  her  hand  for 
the  empty  bag,  and  when  her  brother  gave  it  back  to 
her  she  disappeared  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

Cornelius  then  took  a  feather  broom  and  gently 
smoothed  the  flour  till  it  looked  like  a  fall  of  snow, 
retreating  step  by  step  as  he  did  so,  followed  by  the 
king,  who  seemed  much  amused  by  the  operation. 
When  they  reached  the  door  Louis  XI.  said  to  his 
silversmith,   "Are  there  two  keys  to  the  lock?' 


504  Maitre  Cornelius. 

"  No,  sire/' 

The  king  then  examined  the  structure  of  the  door, 
which  was  braced  with  large  plates  and  bars  of  iron, 
all  of  which  converged  to  a  secret  lock,  the  key  of 
which  was  kept  by  Cornelius. 

After  examining  everything,  the  king  sent  for 
Tristan,  and  ordered  him  to  post  several  of  his  men  for 
the  night,  and  with  the  greatest  secrecy,  in  the  mul- 
berry trees  on  the  embankment  and  on  the  roofs  of 
the  adjoining  houses,  and  to  assemble  at  once  the  rest 
of  his  men  and  escort  him  back  to  Plessis,  so  as  to 
give  the  idea  in  the  town  that  he  himself  would  not  sup 
with  Cornelius.  Next,  he  told  the  miser  to  close  his 
windows  with  the  utmost  care,  that  no  single  ray  of 
light  should  escape  from  the  house,  and  then  he 
departed  with  much  pomp  for  Plessis  along  the  em- 
bankment ;  but  there  he  secretly  left  his  escort,  and 
returned  by  a  door  in  the  ramparts  to  the  house  of  the 
torgonnier.  All  these  precautions  were  so  well  taken 
that  the  people  of  Tours  really  thought  the  king  had 
returned  to  Plessis,  and  would  sup  on  the  morrow  with 
Cornelius. 

Towards  eight  o'clock  that  evening,  as  the  king  was 
supping  with  his  physician,  Cornelius,  and  the  captain 
of  his  guard,  and  holding  much  jovial  converse,  forget- 
ting for  the  time  being  that  he  was  ill  and  in  danger  of 
death,  the  deepest  silence  reigned  without,  and  all 
passers,  even  the  wariest  robber,  would  have  believed 
that  the  Malemaison  was  occupied  as  usual. 

"  1  hope,"  said  the  king,  laughing,  "  that  my  silver- 
smith will  be  robbed  to-night,  so  that  my  curiosity  may 
be  satisfied.     Therefore,  messieurs,  no  one  is  to  leave 


Mattre  Cornelius.  505 

his  chamber  to-morrow  morning  without  my  order,  under 
pain  of  grievous  punishment." 

Thereupon,  all  went  to  bed.  The  next  morning, 
Louis  XL  was  the  first  to  leave  his  apartment,  and  he 
went  at  once  to  the  door  of  the  strong-room.  He  was 
not  a  little  astonished  to  see,  as  he  went  along,  the 
marks  of  a  large  foot  along  the  stairways  and  corridors 
of  the  house.  Carefully  avoiding  those  precious  foot- 
prints, he  followed  them  to  the  door  of  the  treasure- 
room,  which  he  found  locked  without  a  sign  of  fracture 
or  defacement.  Then  he  studied  the  direction  of  the 
steps ;  but  as  they  grew  gradually  fainter,  they  finally 
left  not  the  slightest  trace,  and  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  discover  where  the  robber  had  fled. 

"  Ho,  crony  !  "  called  out  the  king,  "  you  have  been 
finely  robbed  this  time. " 

At  these  words  the  old  Fleming  hurried  out  of  his 
chamber,  visibly  terrified.  Louis  XL  made  him  look 
at  the  foot-prints  on  the  stairs  and  corridors,  and  while 
examining  them  himself  for  the  second  time,  the  king 
chanced  to  observe  the  miser's  slippers  and  recog- 
nized the  type  of  sole  that  was  printed  in  flour  on 
the  corridors.  He  said  not  a  wTord,  and  checked  his 
laughter,  remembering  the  innocent  men  who  had  been 
hanged  for  the  crime.  The  miser  now  hurried  to  his 
treasure.  Once  in  the  room  the  kinsj  ordered  him  to 
make  a  new  mark  with  his  foot  beside  those  already 
existing,  and  easily  convinced  him  that  the  robber  of 
his  treasure  was  no  other  than  himself. 

u  The   pearl  necklace   has  gone!"  cried  Cornelius. 
"  There  is  sorcery  in  this.     I  never  left  my  room." 

"  We  '11  know  all  about  it  now,"  said  the  king  ;  the 


506  Maitre  Cornelius. 

evident  truthfulness  of  his  silversmith  making  him  still 
more  thoughtful. 

He  immediately  sent  for  the  men  he  had  stationed 
on  the  watch  and  asked  :  — 

"  What  did  you  see  during  the  night?  " 

"  Oh,  sire  !  "  said  the  lieutenant,  "  an  amazing  sight ! 
Your  silversmith  crept  down  the  side  of  the  wall  like  a 
cat ;  so  lightly  that  he  seemed  to  be  a  shadow." 

"  I !  "  exclaimed  Cornelius  ;  after  that  one  word,  he 
remained  silent,  and  stood  stock-still  like  a  man  who 
has  lost  the  use  of  his  limbs. 

"  Go  away,  all  of  you,"  said  the  king,  addressing  the 
archers,  "and  tell  Messieurs  Conyngham,  Coyctier, 
Bridore,  and  also  Tristan,  to  leave  their  rooms  and 
come  here  to  mine. — You  have  incurred  the  penalty 
of  death,"  he  said  to  Cornelius,  who,  happily,  did 
not  hear  him.  "You  have  ten  murders  on  your 
conscience !  " 

Thereupon  Louis  XI.  gave  a  silent  laugh,  and  made 
a  pause.  Presently,  remarking  the  strange  pallor  on 
the  Fleming's  face,  he  added :  — 

"You  need  not  be  uneasy;  you  are  more  valuable 
to  bleed  than  to  kill.  You  can  get  out  of  the  claws  of 
my  justice  by  payment  of  a  good  round  sum  to  my 
treasury,  but  if  you  don't  build  at  least  one  chapel  in 
honor  of  the  Virgin,  you  are  likely  to  find  things  hot 
for  you  throughout  eternity." 

"  Twelve  hundred  and  thirty,  and  eighty-seven  thou- 
sand crowns,  make  thirteen  hundred  and  seventeen 
thousand  crowns,"  replied  Cornelius  mechanically,  ab- 
sorbed in  his  calculations.  "  Thirteen  hundred  and 
seventeen  thousand  crowns  hidden  somewhere  !  " 


Maitre  Cornelius.  507 

"  He  must  have  buried  them  in  some  hiding-place," 
muttered  the  king,  beginning  to  think  the  sum  royally 
magnificent.  "That  was  the  magnet  that  invariably 
brought  him  back  to  Tours.     He  felt  his  treasure." 

Coyctier  entered  at  this  moment.  Noticing  the  atti- 
tude of  Maitre  Cornelius,  he  watched  him  narrowly 
while  the  king  related  the  adventure. 

"Sire,"  replied  the  physician,  "there  is  nothing 
supernatural  in  that.  Your  silversmith  has  the  faculty 
of  walking  in  his  sleep.  This  is  the  third  case  I  have 
seen  of  that  singular  malady.  If  you  would  give  your- 
self the  amusement  of  watching  him  at  such  times,  you 
would  see  that  old  man  stepping  without  danger  at  the 
very  edge  of  the  roof.  I  noticed  in  the  two  other  cases 
I  have  already  observed,  a  curious  connection  between 
the  actions  of  that  nocturnal  existence  and  the  inter- 
ests and  occupations  of  their  daily  life." 

"  Ah  !  Maitre  Coyctier,  you  are  a  wise  man." 

"  I  am  your  physician,"  replied  the  other,  insolently. 

At  this  answer,  Louis  XI.  made  the  gesture  which 
was  customary  with  him  when  a  good  idea  was  pre- 
sented to  his  mind  ;  he  shoved  up  his  cap  with  a  hasty 
motion. 

"At  such  times,"  continued  Coyctier,  "  persons  at- 
tend to  their  business  while  asleep.  As  this  man  is 
fond  of  hoarding,  he  has  simply  pursued  his  dearest 
habit.  No  doubt  each  of  these  attacks  have  come  on 
after  a  day  in  which  he  has  felt  some  fears  about  the 
safety  of  his  treasure." 

"  Pasques-Dieu  !  and  such  treasure!"  cried  the 
king. 

"  Where  is  it?"  asked  Cornelius,  who,  by  a  singular 


508  Maitre  Cornelius. 

provision  of  nature,  heard  the  remarks  of  the  king  and 
his  physician,  while  continuing  himself  almost  torpid 
with  thought  and  the  shock  of  this  singular  misfor- 
tune. 

"  Ha !  "  cried  Coyctier,  bursting  into  a  diabolical, 
coarse  laugh,  "  somnambulists  never  remember  on  their 
waking  what  they  have  done  when  asleep." 

"  Leave  us,"  said  the  king. 

When  Louis  XL  was  alone  with  his  silversmith,  he 
looked  at  him  and  chuckled  coldly. 

"  Messire  Hoogworst,"  he  said,  with  a  nod,  "all 
treasures  buried  in  France  belong  to  the  king." 

"  Yes,  sire,  all  is  yours  ;  you  are  the  absolute  master 
of  our  lives  and  fortunes  ;  but,  up  to  this  moment,  you 
have  only  taken  what  yon  need." 

"Listen  to  me,  old  crony;  if  I  help  you  to  recover 
this  treasure,  you  can  surely,  and  without  fear,  agree 
to  divide  it  with  me." 

"  No,  sire,  I  will  not  divide  it ;  I  will  give  it  all  to 
you,  at  my  death.  But  what  scheme  have  you  for 
finding  it?" 

"  I  shall  watch  }rou  myself  when  you  are  taking  your 
nocturnal  tramps.     You  might  fear  any  one  but  me." 

"  Ah,  sire!  "  cried  Cornelius,  flinging  himself  at  the 
king's  feet,  "you  are  the  only  man  in  the  kingdom 
whom  I  would  trust  for  such  a  service ;  and  I  will  try 
to  prove  my  gratitude  for  your  goodness,  by  doing  my 
utmost  to  promote  the  marriage  of  the  Burgundiau 
heiress  with  Monseigneur.  She  will  bring  you  a  noble 
treasure,  not  of  money,  but  of  lands,  which  will  round 
out  the  glory  of  your  crown." 

"  There,  there,  Dutchman,  you  are  trying  to  hood- 


Maitre  Cornelius.  509 

wink  me,"  said  the  king,  with  frowning  brows,  "  or  else 
yon  have  already  done  so." 

"Sire!  can  you  doubt  my  devotion?  you,  who  are 
the  only  man  I  love  ! " 

"All  that  is  talk,"  returned  the  king,  looking  the 
other  in  the  eyes.  "You  need  not  have  waited  till  this 
moment  to  do  me  that  service.  You  are  selling  me 
your  influence  —  Pasques-Dleu !  to  me,  Louis  XI. ! 
Are  you  the  master,  and  am  I  your  servant ?" 

"Ah,  sire,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  was  waiting  to 
surprise  you  agreeably  with  news  of  the  arrange- 
ments I  had  made  for  you  in  Ghent ;  I  was  awaiting 
confirmation  from  Oosterlinck  through  that  apprentice. 
What  has  become  of  that  young  man  ?  " 

"  Enough!  "  said  the  king;  "  this  is  only  one  more 
blunder  you  have  committed.  I  do  not  like  persons  to 
meddle  in  my  affairs  without  my  knowledge.  Enough ! 
leave  me;  I  wish  to  reflect  upon  all  this." 

Maitre  Cornelius  found  the  agility  of  youth  to  run 
downstairs  to  the  lower  rooms  where  he  was  certain  to 
find  his  sister. 

"  Ah !  Jeanne,  my  dearest  soul,  a  hoard  is  hidden  in 
this  house ;  I  have  put  thirteen  hundred  thousand 
crowns  and  all  the  jewels  somewhere.  I,  I,  I  am  the 
robber!  " 

Jeanne  Hoogworst  rose  from  her  stool  and  stood 
erect  as  if  the  seat  she  quitted  were  of  red-hot  iron. 
This  shock  was  so  violent  for  an  old  maid  accustomed 
for  years  to  reduce  herself  by  voluntary  fasts,  that  she 
trembled  in  every  limb,  and  horrible  pains  were  in  her 
back.  She  turned  pale  by  degrees,  and  her  face,  —  the 
changes  in  which  were  difficult  to  decipher  among  its 


510  Maitre  Cornelius. 

wrinkles,  —  became  distorted  while  her  brother  ex- 
plained to  her  the  malady  of  which  he  was  the  victim, 
and  the  extraordinary  situation  in  which  he  found 
himself. 

"Louis  XL  and  I,"  he  said  in  conclusion,  "have 
just  been  lying  to  each  other  like  two  pedlers  of 
cocoanuts.  You  understand,  my  girl,  that  if  he 
follows  me,  he  will  get  the  secret  of  the  hiding-place. 
The  king  alone  can  watch  my  wanderings  at  night.  I 
don't  feel  sure  that  his  conscience,  near  as  he  is  to 
death,  can  resist  thirteen  hundred  thousand  crowns. 
We  must  be  beforehand  with  him ;  we  must  find  the 
hidden  treasure  and  send  it  to  Ghent,  and  you 
alone  —  " 

Cornelius  stopped  suddenly,  and  seemed  to  be  weigh- 
ing the  heart  of  the  sovereign  who  had  had  thoughts 
of  parricide  at  twenty-two  years  of  age.  When  his 
judgment  of  Louis  XL  was  concluded,  he  rose  abruptly 
like  a  man  in  haste  to  escape  a  pressing  danger.  At 
this  instant,  his  sister,  too  feeble  or  too  strong  for 
such  a  crisis,  fell  stark ;  she  was  dead.  Maitre  Cor- 
nelius seized  her,  and  shook  her  violently,  crying  out : 

"  You  cannot  die  now.  There  is  time  enough  later 
—  Oh  !  it  is  all  over.  The  old  hag  never  could  do  any- 
thing at  the  right  time." 

He  closed  her  eyes  and  laid  her  on  the  floor.  Then 
the  good  and  noble  feelings  which  lay  at  the  bottom  of 
his  soul  came  back  to  him,  and,  half  forgetting  his 
hidden  treasure,  he  cried  out  mournfully :  — 

"  Oh!  my  poor  companion,  have  I  lost  you?  —  you 
who  understood  me  so  well!  Oh!  you  were  my  real 
treasure.     There  it  lies,  my  treasure !     With  you,  my 


Maitre  Cornelius.  511 

peace  of  mind,  my  affections,  all,  are  gone.  If  you 
had  only  known  what  good  it  would  have  done  me  to 
live  two  nights  longer,  you  would  have  lived,  solely  to 
please  me,  my  poor  sister  !  Ah,  Jeanne  !  thirteen  hun- 
dred thousand  crowns  !  Won't  that  wake  you  ?  —  No, 
she  is  dead  !  " 

Thereupon,  he  sat  down,  and  said  no  more  ;  but  two 
great  tears  issued  from  his  eyes  and  rolled  down  his 
hollow  cheeks ;  then,  with  strange  exclamations  of 
grief,  he  locked  up  the  room  and  returned  to  the  king. 
Louis  XI.  was  struck  with  the  expression  of  sorrow  on 
the  moistened  features  of  his  old  friend. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  he  asked. 

"Ah!  sire,  misfortunes  never  come  singly.  "My 
sister  is  dead.  She  precedes  me  there  below,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  floor  with  a  dreadful  gesture. 

"Enough!"  cried  Louis  XL,  who  did  not  like  to 
hear  of  death. 

"  I  make  you  my  heir.  I  care  for  nothing  now. 
Here  are  my  keys.  Hang  me,  if  that's  your  good 
pleasure.  Take  all,  ransack  the  house  ;  it  is  full  of 
gold.     I  give  up  all  to  you  —  " 

"  Come,  come,  crony,"  replied  Louis  XL,  who  was 
partly  touched  by  the  sight  of  this  strange  suffering, 
"  we  shall  find  your  treasure  some  fine  night,  and  the 
sight  of  such  riches  will  give  you  heart  to  live.  I  will 
come  back  in  the  course  of  this  week  —  " 

"  As  you  please,  sire." 

At  that  answer  the  king,  who  had  made  a  few  steps 
toward  the  door  of  the  chamber,  turned  round  abruptly. 
The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  with  an  expression 
that  neither  pen  nor  pencil  can  reproduce. 


512  Maitre  Cornelius. 

"Adieu,  my  crony,"  said  Louis  XI.  at  last  in  a  curt 
voice,  pushing  up  his  cap. 

"May  God  and  the  Virgin  keep  you  in  their  good 
graces  !  "  replied  the  silversmith  humbly,  conducting 
the  king  to  the  door  of  the  house. 

After  so  long  a  friendship,  the  two  men  found  a 
barrier  raised  between  them  by  suspicion  and  gold  ; 
though  they  had  always  been  like  one  man  on  the  two 
points  of  gold  and  suspicion.  But  they  knew  each 
other  so  well,  they  had  so  completely  the  habit,  one 
may  say,  of  each  other,  that  the  king  could  divine, 
from  the  tone  in  which  Cornelius  uttered  the  words, 
"  As  you  please,  sire,"  the  repugnance  that  his  visits 
would  henceforth  cause  to  the  silversmith,  just  as  the 
latter  re-cognized  a  declaration  of  war  in  the  "Adieu, 
my  crony,"  of  the  king. 

Thus  Louis  XL  and  his  torgonnier  parted  much  in 
doubt  as  to  the  conduct  they  ought  in  future  to  hold  to 
each  other.  The  monarch  possessed  the  secret  of  the 
Fleming ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  the  latter  could,  by 
his  connections,  bring  about  one  of  the  finest  acquisi- 
tions that  any  king  of  France  had  ever  made  ;  namely, 
that  of  the  domains  of  the  house  of  Burgundy,  which 
the  sovereigns  of  Europe  were  then  coveting.  The 
marriage  of  the  celebrated  Marguerite  depended  on  the 
people  of  Ghent  and  the  Flemings  who  surrounded  her. 
The  gold  and  the  influence  of  Cornelius  could  power- 
fully support  the  negotiations  now  begun  by  Des- 
querdes,  the  general  to  whom  Louis  XL  had  given 
the  command  of  the  army  encamped  on  the  frontiers 
of  Belgium.  These  two  master- foxes  were,  therefore, 
like  two  duellists,  whose  arms  are  paralyzed  by  chance. 


Maitre  Cornelius.  513 

So,  whether  it  were  that  from  that  day  the  king's 
health  failed  and  went  from  bad  to  worse,  or  that 
Cornelius  did  assist  in  bringing  into  France  Marguerite 
of  Burgundy  —  who  arrived  at  Amboise  in  July,  1438, 
to  marry  the  Dauphin  to  whom  she  was  betrothed  in 
the  chapel  of  the  castle  —  certain  it  is  that  the  king 
took  no  steps  in  the  matter  of  the  hidden  treasure ;  he 
levied  no  tribute  from  his  silversmith,  and  the  pair  re- 
mained in  the  cautious  condition  of  an  armed  friend- 
ship. Happily  for  Cornelius  a  rumor  was  spread  about 
Tours  that  his  sister  was  the  actual  robber,  and  that 
she  had  been  secretly  put  to  death  by  Tristan.  Other- 
wise, if  the  true  history  had  been  known,  the  whole 
town  would  have  risen  as  one  man  to  destroy  the 
Malemaison  before  the  king  could  have  taken  measures 
to  protect  it. 

But,  although  these  historical  conjectures  have  some 
foundation  so  far  as  the  inaction  of  Louis  XI.  is  con- 
cerned, it  is  not  so  as  regards  Cornelius  Hoogworst. 
There  was  no  inaction  there.  The  silversmith  spent 
the  first  days  which  succeeded  that  fatal  night  in  cease- 
less occupation.  Like  carnivorous  animals  confined 
in  cages,  he  went  and  came,  smelling  for  gold  in  every 
corner  of  his  house  ;  he  studied  the  cracks  and  crevices, 
he  sounded  the  walls,  he  besought  the  trees  of  the 
garden,  the  foundations  of  the  house,  the  roofs  of  the 
turrets,  the  earth  and  the  heavens,  to  give  him  back  his 
treasure.  Often  he  stood  motionless  for  hours,  casting 
his  eyes  on  all  sides,  plunging  them  into  the  void. 
Striving  for  the  miracles  of  ecstasy  and  the  powers  of 
sorcery,  he  tried  to  see  his  riches  through  space  and 
obstacles.     He  was  constantly  absorbed  in  one  over- 

33 


514  Maitre  Cornelius. 

whelming  thought,  consumed  with  a  single  desire  that 
burned  his  entrails,  gnawed  more  cruelly  still  by  the 
ever-increasing  agony  of  the  duel  he  was  fighting  with 
himself  since  his  passion  for  gold  had  turned  to  his 
own  injury,  —  a  species  of  uncompleted  suicide  which 
kept  him  at  once  in  the  miseries  of  life  and  in  those  of 
death. 

Never  was  a  Vice  more  punished  by  itself.  A 
miser,  locked  by  accident  into  the  subterranean  strong- 
room that  contains  his  treasure,  has,  like  Sardanapalus, 
the  happiness  of  dying  in  the  midst  of  his  wealth.  But 
Cornelius,  the  robber  and  the  robbed,  knowing  the 
secret  of  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  possessed  and 
did  not  possess  his  treasure,  —  a  novel,  fantastic,  but 
continually  terrible  torture.  Sometimes,  becoming  for- 
getful, he  would  leave  the  little  gratings  of  his  door 
wide  open,  and  then  the  passers  in  the  street  could  see 
that  already  wizened  man,  planted  on  his  two  legs  in 
the  midst  of  his  untilled  garden,  absolutely  motionless, 
and  casting  on  those  who  watched  him  a  fixed  gaze,  the 
insupportable  light  of  which  froze  them  with  terror. 
If,  by  chance,  he  walked  through  the  streets  of  Tours, 
he  seemed  like  a  stranger  in  them ;  he  knew  not  where 
he  was,  nor  whether  the  sun  or  the  moon  were  shining. 
Often  he  would  ask  his  way  of  those  who  passed  him, 
believing  that  he  was  still  in  Ghent,  and  seeming  to  be 
in  search  of  something  lost. 

The  most  perennial  and  the  best  materialized  of  human 
ideas,  the  idea  by  which  man  reproduces  himself  by 
creating  outside  of  himself  the  fictitious  being  called 
Property,  that  mental  demon,  drove  its  steel  claws  per- 
petually into  his  heart.    Then ,  in  the  midst  of  this  torture, 


Maitre  Cornelius.  515 

Fear  arose,  with  all  its  accompanying  sentiments.  Two 
men  had  his  secret,  the  secret  he  did  not  know  himself. 
Louis  XL  or  Coyctier  could  post  men  to  watch  him 
during  his  sleep  and  discover  the  unknown  gulf  into 
which  he  had  cast  his  riches,  —  those  riches  he  had 
watered  with  the  blood  of  so  many  innocent  men.  And 
then,  beside  his  fear,  arose  Remorse. 

In  order  to  prevent  during  his  lifetime  the  abduction 
of  his  hidden  treasure,  he  took  the  most  cruel  pre- 
cautions against  sleep ;  besides  which,  his  commercial 
relations  put  him  in  the  way  of  obtaining  powerful 
anti-narcotics.  His  struggles  to  keep  awake  were  awful 
—  alone  with  night,  silence,  Remorse,  and  Fear,  with  all 
the  thoughts  that  man,  instinctively  perhaps,  has  best 
embodied  —  obedient  thus  to  a  moral  truth  as  yet  devoid 
of  actual  proof. 

At  last  this  man  so  powerful,  this  heart  so  hardened 
by  political  and  commercial  life,  this  genius,  obscure  in 
history,  succumbed  to  the  horrors  of  the  torture  he  had 
himself  created.  Maddened  by  certain  thoughts  more 
agonizing  than  those  he  had  as  yet  resisted,  he  cut  his 
throat  with  a  razor. 

This  death  coincided,  almost,  with  that  of  Louis  XL 
Nothing  then  restrained  the  populace,  and  Malemaison, 
that  Evil  House,  was  pillaged.  A  tradition  exists 
among  the  older  inhabitants  of  Touraine  that  a  con- 
tractor of  public  works,  named  Bohier,  found  the 
miser's  treasure  and  used  it  in  the  construction  of 
Chenonceaux,  that  marvellous  chateau  which,  in  spite 
of  the  wealth  of  several  kiii2;s  and  the  taste  of  Diane 
de  Poitiers  and  Catherine  de'  Medici  for  building,  re- 
mains unfinished  to  the  present  day. 


516  Maitre  Cornelius. 

Happily  for  Marie  de  Sassenage,  the  Comte  de  Saint- 
Vallier  died,  as  we  know,  in  his  embassy.  The  family 
did  not  become  extinct.  After  the  departure  of  the 
count,  the  countess  gave  birth  to  a  son,  whose  career 
was  famous  in  the  history  of  France  under  the  reign 
of  Francois  I.  He  was  saved  by  his  daughter,  the 
celebrated  Diane  de  Poitiers,  the  illegitimate  great- 
granddaughter  of  Louis  XI.,  who  became  the  illegiti- 
mate wife,  the  beloved  mistress  of  Henri  II.  —  for 
bastardy  and  love  were  hereditary  in  that  family  of 
nobles. 


THE    END. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


2$al3ac  in  €ngli£f>- 


Memoirs  of  Two  Younc  Married  Women. 

By  Honore  de  Balzac. 

Translated  by  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley.     12 mo. 
Half  Russia.     Price,  $1.50. 


"  There  are,"  says  Henry  James  in  one  of  his  essays,  "two  writers  In 
Balzac, —the  spontaneous   one  and  the   reflective    one,    the    former    of 
which  is  much  the  more  delightful,  while  the  latter  is  the  more  extraordi- 
nary."    It  is  the  reflective  Balzac,  the  Balzac  with  a  theory,  whom  we 
get  in  the  "Deux  Jeunes  Mariees,"  now  translated  by  Miss  Wormeley 
under  the  title  of  "Memoirs  of   Two  Young  Married  Women."     The 
theory  of  Balzac  is  that  the  marriage  of  convenience,  properly  regarded, 
is  far  preferable  to  the  marriage  simply  from  love,  and  he  undertakes  to 
prove  this  proposition  by  contrasting  the  careers  of  two  young  girls  who 
have  been  fellow-students  at  a  convent.     One  of  them,  the  ardent  and 
passionate  Louise  de  Chaulieu,  has  an  intrigue  with  a  Spanish  refugee, 
finally  marries  him,  kills  him,  as  she  herself  confesses,  by  her  perpetual 
jealousy  and  exaction,  mourns  his  loss  bitterly,  then  marries  a  golden- 
haired  youth,  lives  with  him  in  a  dream  of  ecstasy  for  a  year  or  so,  and 
this  time  kills  herself  through  jealousy  wrongfully  inspired.     As  for  het 
friend,  Renee  de  Maucombe,  she  dutifully  makes  a  marriage  to  please  her 
parents,  calculates  coolly  beforehand  how  many  children  she  will  have  and 
how  they  shall  be  trained ;   insists,  however,  that  the  marriage  shall  be 
merely  a  civil  contract  till  she  and  her  husband  find  that  their  hearts  are 
indeed  one;  and  sees  all  her  brightest  visions  realized,  —  her   Louis  an 
ambitious  man  for  her  sake  and  her  children   truly  adorable  creatures. 
The  story,  which  is  told   in  the   form  of  letters,  fairly  scintillates  with 
brilliant  sayings,  and   is   filled  with   eloquent  discourses  concerning  the 
nature  of   love,   conjugal   and   otherwise.      Louise   and   Renee  are   both 
extremely  sophisticated    young  women,   even  in  their  teens  ;    and  those 
who  expect  to  find  in  their  letters  the  demure  innocence  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  type  will  be  somewhat  astonished.      The  translation,  under  the 
circumstances,  was  rather  a  daring  attempt,  but  it  has  been  most  felicit- 
ously done.  —  The  Beacon. 


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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers  Publications. 

2M3ac  in  4rttgfel> 

THE  VILLAGE  RECTOR. 

By  Honore  de  Balzac. 

Translated  by  Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley.     121110. 
Half  Russia.     Price,  $1.50. 


Once  more  that  wonderful  acquaintance  which  Balzac  had  with  all  callings 
appears  manifest  in  this  work.  Would  you  get  to  the  bottom  of  the  engineer's 
occupation  in  France?  Balzac  presents  it  in  the  whole  system,  with  its  aspects, 
disadvantages,  and  the  excellence  of  the  work  accomplished.  We  write  to-day 
of  irrigation  and  of  arboriculture  as  if  they  were  novelties  ;  yet  in  the  waste  lands 
of  Montagnac,  Balzac  found  these  topics ;  and  what  he  wrote  is  the  clearest 
exposition  of  the  subjects. 

But,  above  all,  in  "The  Village  Rector"  is  found  the  most  potent  of  religious 
ideas,  —  the  one  that  God  grants  pardon  to  sinners.  Balzac  had  studied  and 
appreciated  the  intensely  human  side  of  Catholicism  and  its  adaptiveness  to  the 
wants  of  mankind.  It  is  religion,  with  Balzac,  "  that  opens  to  us  an  inexhaustible 
treasure  of  indulgence."     It  is  true  repentance  that  saves. 

The  drama  which  is  unrolled  in  "The  Village  Rector"  is  a  terrible  one,  and 
perhaps  repugnant  to  our  sensitive  minds.  The  selection  of  such  a  plot,  pitiless 
as  it  is,  Balzac  made  so  as  to  present  the  darkest  side  of  human  nature,  and  to 
show  how,  through  God's  pity,  a  soul  might  be  saved.  The  instrument  of  mercy 
is  the  Rector  Bonnet,  and  in  the  chapter  entitled  "The  Rector  at  Work"  he 
shows  how  religion  "  extends  a  man's  life  beyond  the  world."  It  is  not  sufficient 
to  weep  and  moan.  "That  is  but  the  beginning;  the  end  is  action."  Tha 
rector  urges  the  woman  whose  sins  are  great  to  devote  what  remains  of  her  Ufa 
to  work  for  the  benefit  of  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  so  she  sets  about  reclaim- 
ing  the  waste  lands  which  surround  her  chateau.  With  a  talent  of  a  superlative 
order,  which  gives  grace  to  Veronique,  she  is  like  the  Madonna  of  some  old  panel 
of  Van  Eyck's  Doing  penance,  she  wears  close  to  her  tender  skin  a  haircloth 
vestment.  For  love  of  her,  a  man  has  committed  murder  and  died  and  kept  his 
secret.  In  her  youth,  Veronique's  face  had  been  pitted,  but  her  saintly  life  had 
obliterated  that  spotted  mantle  of  smallpox.  Tears  had  washed  out  every  blemish. 
If  through  true  repentance  a  soul  was  ever  saved,  it  was  Veronique's.  This 
work,  too,  has  afforded  consolation  to  many  miserable  sinners,  and  showed  them 
the  way  to  grace. 

The  present  translation  is  to  be  cited  for  its  wonderful  accuracy  and  its  literary 
distinction.  We  can  hardly  think  of  a  more  difficult  task  than  the  Englishing  of 
Balzac,  and  a  general  reading  public  should  be  grateful  for  the  admirable  manner 
in  which  Miss  Wormeley  has  performed  her  task.  — New  York  Times- 


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BALZAC    IN    ENGLISH. 


A  Great  Mm  of  the  Provinces  in  Paris. 

By   HONORE    DE    BALZAC. 

Being  the  second  part  of  "  Lost  Illusions."     Translated  by  Kath- 
arine Prescott  Wormeley.     i2mo.     Half  Russia.     Price,  $1.50. 

We  are  beginning  to  look  forward  to  the  new  translations  of  Balzac  by  Katha- 
rine Wormeley  almost  as  eagerly  as  to  the  new  works  of  the  best  contemporary 
writers.  But,  unlike  the  writings  of  most  novelists,  Balzac's  novels  cannot  be 
judged  separately.  They  belong  together,  and  it  is  impossible  to  understand  the 
breadth  and  depth  of  the  great  writer's  insight  into  human  life  by  reading  any 
one  volume  of  this  remarkable  series.  For  instance,  we  rise  from  the  reading  of 
this  last  volume  feeling  as  if  there  was  nothing  high  or  noble  or  pure  in  life.  But 
what  would  be  more  untrue  than  to  fancy  that  Balzac  was  unable  to  appreciate 
the  true  and  the  good  and  the  beautiful  !  Compare  "  The  Lily  of  the  Valley  " 
or  "  Seraphita  "  or  "Louis  Lambert"  with  "The  Duchesse  of  Langeais"  and 
"  Cousin  Bette,"  and  then  perhaps  the  reader  will  be  able  to  criticise  Balzac  with 
some  sort  of  justice.  — Boston  Transcript. 

Balzac  paints  the  terrible  verities  of  life  with  an  inexorable  hand.  The  siren 
charms,  the  music  and  lights,  the  feast  and  the  dance,  are  presented  in  voluptu- 
ous colors —  but  read  to  the  end  of  the  book!  There  are  depicted  with  equal 
truthfulness  the  deplorable  consequences  of  weakness  and  crime.  Some  have 
read  Balzac's  "Cousin  Bette"  and  have  pronounced  him  immoral;  but  when 
the  last  chapter  of  any  of  his  novels  is  read,  the  purpose  of  the  whole  is  clear,  and 
immorality  cannot  be  alleged.  Balzac  presents  life.  His  novels  are  as  truthful 
as  they  are  terrible.  —  Springfield  Union. 

Admirers  of  Balzac  will  doubtless  enjoy  the  mingled  sarcasm  and  keen  analy- 
sis of  human  nature  displayed  in  the  present  volume,  brought  out  with  even  more 
than  the  usual  amount  of  the  skill  and  energy  characteristic  of  the  author.  — 
Pittsburgh  Post. 

The  art  of  Balzac,  the  wonderful  power  of  his  contrast,  the  depth  of  his 
knowledge  of  life  and  men  and  things,  this  tremendous  story  illustrates.  How 
admirably  the  rise  of  the  poet  is  traced  ;  the  crescendo  is  perfect  in  gradation,  yet 
as  inexorable  as  fate!  As  for  the  fall,  the  effect  is  more  depressing  than  a 
personal  catastrophe.  This  is  a  book  to  read  over  and  over,  an  epic  of  life  in 
prose,  more  tremendous  than  the  blank  verse  of  "  Paradise  Lost "  or  the 
"Divine  Comedy."  Miss  Wormeley  and  the  publishers  deserve  not  congratula- 
tions alone,  but  thanks  for  adding  this  book  and  its  predecessor,  "  Lost  Illusions," 
to  the  literature  of  English.  —  San  Francisco  Wave. 


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Publishers, 

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Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers    Publications. 


BALZAC    IN    ENGLISH. 


THE  BROTHERHOOD  OF  CONSOLATION. 

(UENVERS  DE  UHiSTOIRE   CON7EMPORAINE.) 

By   HONORE   DE   BALZAC. 

1.  Madame  de  la  Chanterie.  2.  The  Initiate.  Translated  by 
Katharine  Prescott  Wormeley.  i2mo.  Half  Russia.  Price, 
$1.50. 

There  is  no  book  of  Balzac  which  is  informed  by  a  loftier  spirit  than 
"  L'Envers  de  l'Histoire  Contemporaine,"  which  has  just  been  added  by  Miss 
Wormeley  to  her  admirable  series  of  translations  under  the  title,  "  The  Brother- 
hood of  Consolation."  The  title  which  is  given  to  the  translation  is,  to  our 
thinking,  a  happier  one  than  that  which  the  work  bears  in  the  original,  since,  after 
all,  the  political  and  historical  portions  of  the  book  are  only  the  background  of  the 
other  and  more  absorbing  theme,  —  the  development  of  the  brotherhood  over 
which  Madame  de  la  Chanterie  presided.  It  is  true  that  there  is  about  it  all 
something  theatrical,  something  which  shows  the  French  taste  for  making  godli- 
ness itself  histrionically  effective,  that  quality  of  mind  which  would  lead  a  Parisian 
to  criticise  the  coming  of  the  judgment  angels  if  their  entrance  were  not  happily 
arranged  and  properly  executed  ;  but  in  spite  of  this  there  is  an  elevation  such  as 
it  is  rare  to  meet  with  in  literature,  and  especially  in  the  literature  of  Balzac's  age 
and  land.  The  story  is  admirably  told,  and  the  figure  of  the  Baron  Bourlac  is 
really  noble  in  its  martyrdom  of  self-denial  and  heroic  patience.  The  picture  of 
the  Jewish  doctor  is  a  most  characteristic  piece  of  work,  and  shows  Balzac's 
intimate  touch  in  every  line.  Balzac  was  always  attracted  by  the  mystical  side 
of  the  physical  nature  ;  and  it  might  almost  be  said  that  everything  that  savored 
of  mystery,  even  though  it  ran  obviously  into  quackery,  had  a  strong  attraction 
for  him.  He  pictures  Halpersohn  with  a  few  strokes,  but  his  picture  of  him  has 
a  striking  vitality  and  reality.  The  volume  is  a  valuable  and  attractive  addition  to 
the  series  to  which  it  belongs  ;  and  the  series  comes  as  near  to  fulfilling  the  ideal 
of  what  translations  should  be  as  is  often  granted  to  earthly  things.  —  Boston 
Courier. 

The  book,  which  is  one  of  rare  charm,  is  one  of  the  most  refined,  while  at  the 
same  time  tragic,  of  all  his  works.  — Public  Opinion. 

His  present  work  is  a  fiction  beautiful  in  its  conception,  just  one  of  those 
practical  ideals  which  Balzac  nourished  and  believed  in.  There  never  was  greater 
homage  than  he  pays  to  the  book  of  books,  "  The  Imitation  of  Jesus  Christ." 
Miss  Wormeley  has  here  accomplished  her  work  just  as  cleverly  as  in  her  other 
volumes  of  Balzac. — N.  V.  Times 


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